


Modus Operandi

by CarpensDiem



Series: Bellona Drager [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), MCU, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hydra (Marvel), Infinity Gems, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-15 13:15:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 25,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11806731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarpensDiem/pseuds/CarpensDiem
Summary: Sequel to Manus in Manu.





	1. December 25, 1991

The empty Bourbon bottle shattered in the fireplace. Twenty-one year old Tony Stark stared into the flickering flames. He had flung the glass bottle into the dying fire. It was Christmas Day; 5:00 AM. Light snow was drifting outside. The world was a frozen gingerbread house.

But he was oblivious to it.

He wasn’t sure when he last slept. He wasn’t sure if he was awake now. He was slumped on a couch. It was surrounded by liquor bottles. He was wearing an all-black suit. He wore the same suit yesterday. The tie was missing. The fireplace was full of broken glass. The fire was suffocating slowly. He had crushed a glass of whiskey in his hand. There was a cut on this hand. It ran down the length of his thumb. It had already clotted. It would probably scar. He had run his hand through his hair. His hair was greasy and unkempt. Dried blood was on his forehead. All he could smell was death.

But he was oblivious to it.

There was one thing he was not oblivious to. It screamed at him. It deafened him. It would drown him. It drove him to find solace. He tried to find it in the broken bottles everywhere. He was failing.

Because for the first time in his youthful life, he was utterly, irrevocably, and irreparably, alone.

Two weeks ago: his godparents, murdered in their home.

The same day: the closest thing he had to a sibling, dead in an explosive act of terrorism.

A week ago: his own parents, killed in a car crash.

Somewhere in his alcohol-saturated brain, the dim notes of “ _O Holy Night”_ pealed out their solemn, religious aura from the old relic of a radio he had built when he was in middle school. He had apparently turned it on and promptly forgot about it; in an extreme hurry to dump as much alcohol into his bloodstream as he possibly could. Because maybe, just maybe, the bottles of liquor possessed the power to soothingly wash away the past month. And it would have all been just a nightmare. And the crooning notes of music would be his aging but still beautiful mother softly playing the grand piano in the other room. And a girl with a long French braid and glowing blue eyes would walk in and find him there, as far away from sober as humanly possible. With a disgusted look on her face, Bellona Drager would wrench the last bottle out of his hand and order him to get cleaned up because his mother wanted him to join them for Christmas breakfast. She would then march into his room because he would be taking too long to get ready, and find him incapable of holding a razor to his stubble-laden jaw without slicing his throat open. So she would make a snarky remark about how he should invent some device to shave for him whenever he was so inebriated he couldn’t stand straight. To which he would begin to reply that he didn’t need such a device because she had conveniently been born — before she snatched the razor from him and assisted him with experienced ease. He would slur something along the lines of “thanks, sis” then make a joke about the situation and Bella would deliberately slice open a small cut on his cheek with the razor. Then she would tell him to stop complaining and force him to take some painkillers so he wouldn’t be a complete embarrassment to the Stark family name. He would bleatingly inform her that she sounded like his father, which he did not appreciate in the slightest. But he would re-enter the room, clean-shaved and freshened, to find the couch clear and the evidence of his debauchery having vanished — courtesy of the eighteen-year old. And she would then gripe at him for being so careless, and tell him that it was up to him to get rid of the absurd amount of glass in the fireplace. He would say he’d think of something, and then Bella would lead his staggering form across the room. They’d enter the dining room and their parents would be sitting about the table, chatting quietly. James Drager and Howard Stark would be whispering about some confidential matters, while Maria Drager would be telling Maria Stark all about her latest dig in some exotic location. They would fall silent and look towards the door when their children arrived. And despite Bella’s extensive efforts at making Tony look decent, his parents would see straight through because of the deliberate cut on his cheek that she had left there for that exact reason. His father would shoot him a disapproving shake of his head that he would pretend not to see. James Drager would laugh and make a comment to his good friend about letting his son live. It would be his mother’s pursed lips that would make guilt trickle through him. But she would rise from her seat anyway, wrap her arms around him in a warm hug and whisper Merry Christmas in his ear. Plant a kiss on his forehead and guide him over to-”

“ _\- oh holy night -”_

The ironic lyrics of the song shattered his illusion. The radio still warbled its melodious music. Repeatedly. Tony Stark was thrust back into his harsh reality. He was alone. The sound of exploding glass his sole company. It echoed through his head like a church hymn. It made him want to claw out his bloodshot eyes.

“- _the stars are brightly shining -”_

James and Maria Drager? Dead. Bellona Drager? Dead. Howard and Maria Stark? Dead. In that exact order.

“- _it is the night of our dear Savior’s birth -”_

There was nothing holy about this night. It was just like any other this month. Cold. Hollow. Funereal. The stars weren’t even shining. They were obscured by thick clouds. The clouds that cried out with icy white flakes. There was no savior. Not for the forsaken twenty-one year old. Mankind’s savior wouldn't allow this much tragedy into the world. Would he? Would he?


	2. June 27, 2016

“You sure about this?” Steve Rogers approached a mellow Bucky Barnes sitting on the tabletop in the Wakandan medical facility before the cryofreeze machine.

“I can’t trust my own mind,” Bucky grimly smiled at him. “So until they figure out how to get this stuff out of my head, I think going back under is the best thing — for everybody.”

“Even. . .”

“Yeah, Steve. Even Bells.”

“She’s not gonna take it lightly when she finds out,” Steve frowned, “you sure you don’t want to just tell her?”

“She’ll understand, eventually,” Bucky sighed. “I’m doing this for her, too.”

  
  


********

  
  


“Thank you for this,” Steve Rogers stepped to stand beside T’Challa as he gazed out over the vast Wakandan wilderness. It was enchantingly beautiful. 

“Your friend and my father, they were both victims. If I can help one of them find peace. . .”

“You know if they find out he’s here. . . if she’s here. . . they’ll come for them.”

“Let them try.”

  
  


********

  
  


Steve Rogers found Bellona Drager sitting in one of the long side rooms, where he had stood earlier with T’Challa, but in the other wing of the facility. Before he entered, several of T’Challa’s security force, the Dora Milaje, exited the room. Upon arriving in Wakanda, the King’s elite bodyguards and Bellona Drager had not particularly gotten along; Bellona hadn’t quite understood their purpose — why need bodyguards when you own a suit made of vibranium? Likewise, the Dora Milaje were extremely suspicious of the girl with flashing blue eyes. In fact, it seemed all of the native Wakandans were unsettlingly wary of Bellona Drager, in such a way that implied a reverential respect rooted in a deep fear. Steve didn’t know what to make of it until he heard T’Challa refer to Bella as ‘goddess’, and all the pieces fell into place.

Now, however, Bellona and the Dora Milaje seemed to get along just fine, were even quite amiable, in fact. This was proven by a few of the usually stoic-faced tall women heading out of the room with slight smiles on their faces and laughter in their eyes. 

Steve Rogers paused a moment in the wide doorway, studying the enhanced individual before approaching her. Bellona was swirling an iced coffee in one hand — something she had insisted upon having as often as possible. The King of Wakanda had no trouble serving her every wish, as they usually consisted of nothing but coffee or books. She was lounging on one of the luxurious leather recliners that were scattered about the room, with clear glass tables between them, each boasting a marvelous view of the unique Wakandan landscape. A smirk was on her face, as though she had cracked an incredibly amusing joke. Judging from the group of women who had just left, Steve was fairly certain this was exactly what had occurred.  

“Hey, Steve,” Bellona noticed his presence across the room. She raised her coffee in his direction in a nonchalant salute.

“Hey,” he replied, “mind if we talk for a moment?” He leaned against the doorway to imply a casual, informal air. 

“Sure,” she said, flicking a finger towards the recliner beside her in a lazy invitation for him to join her. “What’s up, Rogers?” Bellona asked, her blue eyes shimmering with her bright mood. It was the happiest he had seen her since their flight from Siberia and arrival in Wakanda. He hated to destroy her jollity by bearing news she was bound to be upset about, but he took a seat nonetheless. Someone had to do it, and he knew he was the best one for the job.

“We need to talk,” he informed her in a calm voice. Despite having been in impressive control of her powers since arriving in Wakanda, he knew Bellona was still bound to lose that control if triggered into a strong reaction. Particularly now that Bucky was incapacitated.

“You just said that,” the girl jested, flicking her long loose locks of hair over her shoulder. She gave him an inquisitive smile, tilting her head slightly to the side. “Is this about Tony?”

“No, it’s about Bucky,” he gently corrected her.

“Oh?” Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but a smirk slowly crept onto her face. “Are you gonna give me the ‘you’re dating my best friend don’t hurt him’ talk?”

“Uh, no. . .” Steve said nervously; he quickly avoided any eye contact with her. Evidently, however, something about his demeanor alerted her suspicions. Her light humor instantly vanished and her ocean eyes hardened. Blue shards of arctic ice threatened to stake themselves into his flesh and blood. He found an involuntary shiver running down his spine in an animalistic reaction to her menacing aura.

“What is it, then?” She demanded, tone hinting at danger. Her eyes then swivelled around, scanning the room and noting what was out of place. “Steve, where’s Bucky?”

He decided to cut to the chase. “Buck, well, he — he decided to go back under.”

Bellona’s eyes narrowed to slits. She slowly placed her coffee on the table beside the leather chair she lounged in. Her posture became militant. “What do you mean, ‘go back under’?”

“As in cryofreeze. . .” Steve coughed uncomfortably. 

“Why?”

“He thought it was the best idea, for everyone. Especially for you-”

“And he didn’t feel obligated to tell me?” 

“Guess he knew how you’d react.” Steve Rogers became stiffly aware of the pressure drop that was occurring in the room between them. His eardrums throbbed in pain, but he ignored them for the time being. If Bellona could understand-

“And was too coward to deal with it? So he dumped it on you, Rogers?” Her knuckles had turned white as she gripped the black leather armrests of her chair. Muscles taut, her teeth clashed together in a furious snarl. 

Steve rushed to prevent the situation from spinning out of control. “Not exactly-”

Bellona Drager lost it. She leapt to her feet, her hands clawed into fists as a low boom echoed through the room. Tongues of fire began snarling and cackling from her clenched fists, reaching down towards the polished floor with fiery consequences. “DON’T BULLSHIT ME, STEVE! THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED!”

In response, Steve jumped up out of his chair and raised his hands in a plea. “Look, Bella, calm down, Bucky thinks he made the right decision-”

“THE RIGHT DECISION WOULD BE TO  _ NOT  _ GO BACK INTO CRYOFREEZE!” The chair behind her erupted into spitting sunset flames. The leather and wood of the frame burned with a ferocity known only to a few. Steve was forced to take a few steps back from the sheer heat the mini firestorm was generating in such a small space. Bellona, however, seemed entirely unaffected. 

“Look at what happened in Germany,” he tried to reason with her. “He did it for you.”

“‘DID IT FOR ME’, SHUT UP! DON’T GIVE ME THAT SAPPY BULLSHIT!” She howled her rage at the super-soldier, her head pounding at what he had just informed her of. She didn’t care that she was destroying the room around them. If her life was going to hell, she was taking everything else with her. With a shrieking crash, the glass panes of the windows that looked out over the steamy Wakandan forest cracked and shattered to pieces. They crumbled down into tiny bits of glass that burned themselves to death with a white hot fire, until only minute grains of sand remained on the once flawless floor.

Steve worriedly glanced over at this, wondering if the Dora Milaje or T’Challa himself would come running towards the sounds of destruction. “They’re trying to get what’s in your heads out-”

“How are they gonna be able to do that when HE’S IN CRYOFREEZE?” She screamed at him with such ire, he instinctively flinched back further from her. Bellona couldn’t seem to stress her point enough. “EXACTLY HOW are we supposed to get the shit out of  _ both  _ our heads if  _ HE’S IN CRYOFREEZE!” _

“Bella, it’s so nothing happens while they research-” Steve attempted once more to elaborate, but found her rage turned back to him. The fire had now consumed the furniture throughout the room, soot and ash being all that remained. The pregnant gray heavens outside suddenly birthed torrential rain into being, and the Captain was deeply thankful that the contrast of the elements inside the room and outside seemed to cancel the other out. Albeit, the fire simmered down only to be replaced by the vehemence of the wind and rain. 

“SHUT UP!” Bellona screamed at him, the tempest seeming to react to her anger. Despite the open windows being well across the room, Steve was pelted by bullets of rain with the capacity to leave indignant welts. He shielded his face from the elements, the wind hissing its wrath into his ears as it battered and bruised him. “HE’S BEING SELFISH IS WHAT HE’S BEING. HE DIDN’T EVEN TELL ME HE WAS THINKING ABOUT IT! DIDN’T EVEN SAY, ‘HEY BELLS, I WANNA GO BACK UNDER, HAVE FUN WITHOUT ME’ — FUCK HIM!”

“Bella,” Steve croaked out, wishing desperately he had his shield at the moment. “Relax-”

“‘RELAX’ — THAT’S WHAT YOU TELL ME, ROGERS? ‘RELAX’ — WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITHOUT HIM? DON’T YOU GET IT? HYDRA ENGINEERED ME TO  _ NEED  _ HIM! I CAN’T DO SHIT WITHOUT HIM! IT’S LIKE IF THE PRESIDENT JUST LEAVES THE NUCLEAR FOOTBALL LOCKED IN HIS OFFICE — USELESS!”

The fact that the room had been destroyed in a primal, elemental rage seemed to contradict to this statement; control seemed to be the better adjective to utilize. A hand protecting his eyes from the stinging rain, Steve attempted to shout at her over the screaming wind. “I’m sure it’s not that-”

A guttural rumble shook the facility, causing him to stumble and lose his balance. His eyes flashed to Bellona instantly. She was quaking with rage but it seemed no longer to be directed at him. Wind still whined around them as she shot him a glare of enraged trepidation. Before sprinting out of the room and deeper into the facility, she sneered down at him, in his crouched position to protect his vulnerable face from the clawing elements. “Just watch, Rogers.”


	3. March 20, 1993

It was somewhere in Bosnia. They only had the coordinates; they had a mission. Well,  _ she  _ had a mission. 

The town had been under siege for a year. Few residents remained, but those who did were stubbornly defending what remained of their homes. Artillery shells had blown gaping holes into upper floors of houses, undisciplined raids had shot out glass windows, eager arsonists had exploded cars in strategic locations. The town was near capitulation. All it needed was one more push. An inexorable juggernaut to smash the last of the resistance. 

It was the early hours of the morning and darkness crept through the crater-marked streets. Occasionally, a flicker of dim candlelight could be seen through the newspapers and scraps of cloth that were hung where windows once stood proud. For the besieged, the war never ceased. 

They had driven all through the country to arrive at the mission location. They had destroyed the car a few miles from the site and trekked through the mountainous landscape until they approached the edges of the town. Then they waited until nightfall.

She was outfitted in a black combat suit complete with mask that covered the lower half of her face. A handgun rested on each of her thighs, and when she moved, a flash of silver would reveal the presence of a sharp knife strapped to her inner left forearm. He was in a matching black outfit and mask, yet carried a considerably larger quantity of weapons on his person. He was much more apt to need them. But his orders for this mission were to simply command and protect.

“Maximum casualties. Compromise integrity of heavy infrastructure. Eliminate possible routes of transportation,” he was muttering to her in a monotone voice as they stood hidden in the woods outside the town. Above them, the trees rustled in the light wind, gossiping to each other of the nefarious deeds they would silently bear witness to. 

The war goddess nodded at each command the Soldier barked off. It was dark, and the town was already crippled. Decimating it a bit more would be effortless, and easily blamed on the besiegers.

The pair of ghostly assassins stood in silence for a long moment before the Soldier raised his AK-47, popped in a fresh clip, and nodded at his companion. They strode off towards the town, footsteps in sync with one another. Somewhere, a round of ammo was fired off with sudden pops, followed quickly by hoarse shouting. Their footsteps were noiseless as they crept through the empty streets, mere shadows cast amongst the despondent buildings. They swiftly traversed through the town until reaching those areas still populated. There they paused, allowing the silence to drown out all else before the Soldier turned and locked eyes with the goddess. Impassive blue stared into vacant blue before her braid bounced as she dropped to the cracked asphalt of the road they stood upon. Her bare palm met the rough tar and she applied a rather forceful pressure to the road. 

The tremor resembled the shockwave of an earthquake as energy flowed down from her palm and imbued itself into the road. From there, all she needed was a moment of concentration, and she felt the energy begin to travel. It snaked down the roads, branching off from where they stood and following the asphalt lines that divided the condemned town. 

“Set,” she said hollowly as she rose from the ground to stand before the Soldier. He merely nodded at this and continued down the road. She followed him obediently, awaiting her next task with flawless subservience. She walked with confident ease, trusting his charge. He prowled across the town with the fearlessness of a predator with nothing to lose. The lead of his gun barking at anything that might hinder the girl’s task. 

“Two o’clock,” he said in gruff voice as they came upon a rather large apartment building that already had several missing floors from artillery shells. “Brick.”

These few words held immense portent for the fate of the building. They triggered the girl to raise a hand in its direction and clench her fingers into a fist. In response, a screeching sound emanated from the apartment building as the bricks and cement of its foundation began to systematically explode.

“Eleven o’clock. Wood. Multiple targets.”

“Spreadable,” was her agreement to this next order. Her hand came up again and this other, wooden building that had somehow remained more or less unscathed during the siege rapidly roared up into flames. The orange flickers snarled up at the sky, leaping over to the buildings around them. By the time the pair had passed it, the entire block was ablaze. The town was now alive, screams and shouts of horror were beginning to fill the air, accompanied by blaring alarms to warn the other inhabitants of their continued ill-fortune. 

Chaos descended with a silent, smooth, and entirely unsuspected grace. The perpetrators stalked down the street in silence, the trail of destruction following at their heels like a well-trained dog. 

“Repeat — nine o’clock,” came the order, and another towering apartment building was consumed by tongues of spitting flames. The firestorm had grown to astronomical proportions, the gusts of wind whipping it about, spreading it with terrifying ease. The air was sweltering hot and the creaks and groans of collapsing wood were punctuated by the shrieks of the remaining residents as they attempted to grasp an understanding of the situation. Embers floated down through the night, glowing like fiery fireflies in clouds of chthonic precipitation. The scene was mercilessly apocalyptic, as though the gates of Tartarus had been opened by Hades and Persephone to unleash the hounds of hell. 

Smoke twined its way through the streets, stalking the black-clad pair. Somewhere, the snapping of gunfire sounded, though it was soon drowned out by what was either the explosions of artillery shells, or the imploding of buildings around the town. Once the two reached the edge of the city and the mountains stretched out before them, the Soldier established eye contact with the goddess and nodded purposefully. Her mask hid her devious grin as she turned on heel and knelt down to the ground. A hand stretched out to place itself on the rocky asphalt of the road. When her skin came into contact with the ground, a violent shiver racked her body. Simultaneously, a tremor ran through the Bosnian town, and the latent energy she had imbued within the streets shuddered, galvanized, and expanded. In such a way that was almost reminiscent of carpet bombing, the streets exploded. Tar, dirt, rock, and other debris was thrown up in fatal bursts of power that snaked through the town in lines of inescapable doom. 

“Done,” she announced in a cold, perfunctory manner. Without a word, the Soldier shouldered his gun, clenched her hand within his, and led her out of the damned town.

 


	4. July 1, 2016

“Okay, okay, okay-”

“Bella, relax.” Steve Rogers looked across the Black Panther’s sleek private aircraft where the blue-eyed girl was trying to control her breathing. The two of them, along with T’Challa, King of Wakanda, were flying towards the Raft, where the rest of the team was being held. Their mission: prison break. 

“Is she always like this?” T’Challa had put the plane in autopilot and walked back into the cabin to eye the pair. He had seen the full force of her rage a few days back after she was informed of Bucky’s return to cryo. But this wasn't rage, it was thinly veiled terror. 

It had taken a spectacular amount of persuasion and convincing to get her to agree to come along with them to the Raft, mostly because they had no other way to feasibly break in and then break out of the maximum security prison without her. 

“She's never exactly done anything like this without Bucky,” Steve explained her behavior. “Or, at least, without the Winter Soldier giving orders.”

“HYDRA has had their fun with her as well,” the King noted with pity. The girl was rubbing her gloved hands together nervously, rocking back and forth in her seat, oblivious to their stares.

“I need her in order to get in and out of there, though,” Steve told him gravely. “Else there's no chance.”

“Miss Drager,” T’Challa called softly, approaching the trembling girl. “Miss Drager-”

“What?” She suddenly snapped, glowing blue eyes raised to glare at the king. “Are we crashing? What is it?”

“We are five minutes out,” he informed her. “Are you ready?”

“Sure,” Bellona muttered irritably. She ran a gloved hand through her long waves of hair. It felt odd, after so long, to have her hair free from braids. 

“How are you planning on getting us in and out?” Steve gently urged her . 

“Uh,” she stuttered, eyes flicking around the aircraft as though looking for something or someone. 

“Buck’s not here, Bella,” Captain Rogers reminded her in a low voice. He knelt before her so he was at eye level. “It's all you.”

At this, she stared at him with a blank expression for a long moment. Before she unstuck her dry throat and swallowed heavily. “I — I don't know if I can do this, Steve. . .” 

“Hey,” he caught her hands with his and forced her to look him in the eye. “Yes, you can. Forget about Bucky, forget about HYDRA, forget about Tony, forget about it all. Just think that Sam, Scott, Wanda, and Clint need your help.  _ Your  _ help. You're the only one who can get them out.”

“No pressure,” she whispered with a grimace. 

“So, Miss Drager,” T’Challa quietly chimed in. “Have you a strategy?”

“Um,” she furrowed her brow as though trying desperately to remember something. “I think. . . February 18, 1992.” 

“Did it work?” Steve pushed, knowing she was referring to one of her HYDRA missions with the Winter Soldier. 

“Yes,” she replied, a sharp look of horror coming over her face. “Disrupted all electronic communications to allow undetected entrance, then — then. . .”

“Then?” Both Steve and T'Challa questioned. 

“Then I asphyxiated all the guards so we could retrieve the package.” She had a look of alarmed  _ nolo contendere _ displayed upon her face, further adding to the poignant air between the three.

“Anyway you can do it without actually killing anyone?” Steve asked, ignoring his uneasiness at what she was telling him. 

“Man will meet death after six minutes of no oxygen,” T’Challa stated, glancing at them. 

“That's not gonna be enough time to get in and get them all out,” Steve worried, looking from Bellona to the King for ideas. He paused when he observed that T'Challa was watching Bellona with a mixture of curiosity and awe. The king murmured to himself in Wakandan for a moment before glancing back at Steve. 

“Unless she synthesized some sort of anaesthesia.”

“I've never done that before,” Bellona had clearly heard the suggestion, and was looking at the Black Panther with a slight frown on her face. 

“Or some way to disrupt the consciousness of each man aboard the raft,” T'Challa continued. “HYDRA saw only potential for destruction. They put a limit on your power. Expand your mind, war goddess.”

“I literally cannot,” she carped angrily. “They didn't want me to.”

“With that attitude?” Steve snorted. Bellona turned to stare at him in astonishment at his remark. “They need you, Bella,” he reminded her. “Clint, Wanda, Sam, Scott.”

“We are directly above the Raft,” T'Challa had returned to the cockpit to take control of the jet. “Go, now.” 

“C’mon,” Steve pulled her up from her seat and settling her on her feet. “Now’s our chance.”

The hatch at the end of the plane raised itself with a whine, and the two looked out into the roaring storm clouds that concealed the prison raft below. 

“You gotta disrupt the radio and electronic controls so they can't call for help,” Steve walked her through the process. “Then get us safely down there, and open the helipad landing spot for us to enter.”

“Right,” she nodded quickly, absorbing the information. She was hastily trying to recall what she had done back in 1992. 

A crack of thunder trembled the jet and Steve stumbled from the shockwaves. Before he could collect himself, however, Bellona grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the plane, jumping down into the storm. 

“Bellaaaaa!” His shout was carried away by the howling wind around them; rain and gales battered the two about as they free fell downwards. Everything was a snarling gray, until Steve could glimpse the shiny metal exterior of the prison raft. He watched as lightning from the storm struck the raft and a glint of electricity shuttered through its huge surface. Next thing he knew, he was standing on the helipad landing site inside the raft, a wet and grinning Bellona Drager beside him.

“Anyone ever tell you you're something else,” he shook his head at her shit-eating smirk. A few seconds ago she had been having a panic attack in the jet. Now, her eyes were gleaming with raw power that was coursing through her.

“Never,” she sarcastically snickered and turned towards the shouting guards who had gathered at their unexpected appearance. They never had time to yell more than a few words, as Bellona Drager clapped her hands together. There was a deafening, ominous silence. Then every guard collapsed to the floor with clangs and clops.

“Wanda’s gonna be in high security,” Steve immediately began giving orders. “Get her out. I’ll get the others. Meet back here stat.”

“Copy that,” Bellona barked before sprinting into the interior of the floating prison. 

Finding Wanda Maximoff was effortless. She simply followed the Witch’s distinct energy aura, which she exuded in spite of being padlocked using some sort of heavy-duty electrical collar. The thick metal door was cool and tingly against Bellona’s bare skin before it forcibly swung open at her touch and allowed the girl access to the room.

“Hey,” Bellona grinned at a stunned Wanda Maximoff as she strolled into the cell and popped a hand up to rest on her hip in a sassy posture. The Scarlet Witch simply gaped back at her; Bellona Drager swaggered into the prison specifically designed to hold enhanced individuals the same way she would walk into a frat party. As if her gaze claimed ownership of all it fell upon.

“This is. . . horrifying,” Bellona commented as she placed a hand on the collar that held Wanda and it began to smoke and crack beneath her fingers. She pulled it off the Sokovian and tossed it aside with enviable ease. “Let’s go, we gotta meet up with the others.”

“H-how?” Wanda managed to choke out as Bellona helped her to her feet and assisted her out of the cell. “What happened?”

“Long story,” the blue-eyed girl said with a grimace. “We’ll fill in the details later. Right now we gotta go.”

“You get her!” Steve Rogers called across the helipad landing area as Bellona and Wanda jogged from one direction and he, along with Sam Wilson, Scott Lang, and Clint Barton arrived from the opposite side.

“Yeah, let’s go!” Bellona shouted as the group met up in the middle, exchanging nods and brief glances as a greeting under the present circumstances.

“Uh, what’s the plan for getting out, seeing as you didn’t bring a chopper?” Clint asked with concern. 

Steve simply turned to Bellona, who met his eyes and hesitated for a brief moment that was obvious to all. 

“Uh,” she bit her lip for a moment, glancing upwards at the open top of the raft prison, where the storm outside still raged with a divine fury. “Well, I, uh-”

“You don’t have a plan?!” Clint and Sam shouted at her at the same time while Scott flinched at their sudden outburst. He stared at the group of Avengers with worry, wondering where this was heading. 

“Bella,” Wanda placed a hand on her shoulder and calming tendrils of red energy momentarily surrounded her. Instead of triggering harsh memories, however, the energy allowed Bellona to focus intently upon her next actions. “ _ Think _ ,” the Witch stated the word in her native Sokovian dialect. The Eastern European language struck a chord within Bellona’s brain, reminding her distinctly of an order snapped in Russian.

“Right,” she breathed, “I got it. Follow me, and don’t panic, whatever you do,” she warned the group around her, then turned so her back faced them all. They stared at her in trepidation until a swift rhythmic motion of her hands birthed a swirling mass of clouds before them.

“Is this supposed to help us?” Sam asked skeptically. Bellona simply rolled her eyes at him and took a step forwards, and then upwards. She glanced back to note the look on the Falcon’s face. His jaw had dropped because the grinning girl was now standing on the mass of clouds. He was quick to recover himself, noting that Steve nodded in approval at this action.

“Hurry!” She urged them all to follow as the dense clouds reorganized themselves into a type of submarine-style staircase that led out of the Raft and into the storm above. The group sprinted up and out, where they were battered by the storm winds until a firm manipulation of the air molecules and currents wrapped them in a protective shield that disallowed the elements from molesting them.

“Can you signal T’Challa?” Steve asked once they were well above the raft. Scott had begun muttering under his breath about sorcery and heights while Sam was trying to wrap his head around the physics. Wanda was monitoring Bellona’s actions in case her services were required once more. Clint looked like he was trying not to pop a blood vessel at their present circumstances.

“Sure,” Bellona replied as though Steve had asked her to grab him a cup of coffee. Her hand came up once more and a bright orange flare of a fireball rose above them. 

“Isn’t that telling everyone where we are?” Sam doubted this course of action.

“Yeah, but T’Challa will be here before anyone else notices,” Bellona assured him.

“The King of Wakanda’s on our side now?” Sam was dumbfounded.

“We’ll fill you in once we’re aboard,” Steve promised him, his breathing evening out when he finally spied the Black Panther’s stealthy aircraft approaching them.

It took the group seconds to board the jet and the hatch to seal behind them. Once the former prisoners were settled with blankets, cups of tea, and a summary of the past month’s events, Bellona turned to T'Challa. 

“How long?”

“Nine and a half minutes.”

The despair, guilt, and dismay that surged up and dulled her vivid blue eyes was enough to reveal to Steve Rogers and the King of Wakanda that she had recreated her mission of February 18, 1992 to the par. 

“How many?” Steve asked in a solemn voice. Now, he regretted their rushing and not allowing her enough time to come to terms with her autonomy for the mission.

“Fifty-seven,” she whispered, falling backwards onto one of the seats of the plane. The others were watching her, mystified, but the morbid atmosphere that had spawned into being was enough for them to remain silent.

“Bellona,” the tone Steve had adopted and the usage of her full name had her snapping her head to gaze into his baby blue eyes. “Cover it.”

“What?” She murmured, unsure what he was implying.

“Can you do it from this distance? Use the storm, a gas leak, anything — cover it.” 

Bellona stared weakly at him for a moment before finding herself locking eyes with Wanda Maximoff, whose eyes flared red as she understood the situation instantly. 

“She accidentally killed fifty-seven guards to get us out,” Wanda bluntly filled the others in. “Because the breaking in and out — it took longer than she had hoped. They were. . . asphyxiated.”

“Holy shit,” Clint muttered, his eyes wide.

“Steve,” Sam swallowed in deep-seated concern. “Do you know how bad that’s gonna look? Especially with everything else that’s happened so far?”

“I know,” he replied, before turning back to Bellona, a pleading look on his face.

“Bella,” Clint then jumped in front of the girl, who had begun to quiver from the reality of the situation. He grabbed her wrists and pulled her forwards, forcing her to glance up at him. “Look at me.  _ Look  _ at me. Look at Wanda, and Sam, and Lang. We’re free from that shithole because of you. You didn’t mean to kill those other guys — they were probably gonna kill you if they had the chance. But a breakout and a mass murder is too much fodder for the political machines — they’ll rain shit down on all of us. You, Steve, me, even T’Challa if they find out he was involved. Hell, they might even drag Tony into this. It’ll be a nightmare — a fucking nightmare.” He paused a moment, to see if she was following along with what he was saying. “Everyone will be literally or figuratively chained the rest of their lives,” he didn’t care if he was exaggerating at this point, all he wanted to do was see his wife and kids again. “You gotta fix this. Somehow. It doesn’t matter how, but you gotta fix it.”

“All the guards were in the main helipad landing area,” Wanda entered the conversation, sensing her powers would be needed. She knelt down in front of the shaking girl and laid a hand on her knee, sending calming waves of red energy through her once more. “It’s easy to make it look like an accident.”

“But what do I  _ do!? _ ” Bellona’s silence was broken and she yelled these words at them. The group of Steve, Clint, and Wanda shared a look between them, while Sam and Scott stood off to the side, watching intently. 

“What can cover up asphyxiation?” Sam tossed in his two cents. And it seemed to be of benefit.

“Drowning,” Wanda glanced up at the others, who nodded in agreement. “Or an electrical storm — the communications were cut using electricity, right? That would work — combine everything.”

“Storm’s already here,” Clint added, squeezing Bellona’s hands in his and making eye contact with her again. “Can you do that?”

“I dunno-”

“ _ Yes, you can _ ,” Wanda retorted in harsh Sokovian, making the girl before her flinch as another stream of red energy surged through her. The blue of her eyes was tinged with this red, making them appear a deep, glowing purple color. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Bellona assented, shaking her head as if to clear her muddled brain. “Everyone back away.” They did so without question. “I hope the distance isn’t too far,” she murmured before dropping her head into her hands and concentrating to such an extent she grew completely still. The group of Sam, Steve, Scott, Clint, and Wanda doubted whether she was even breathing until she raised her head, looking exhausted beyond measure and nodded at them. “Done.”

“That seemed — a little  _ too  _ easy,” Sam voiced what they all were thinking.

Clint shrugged, but he sensed in his gut it had been successfully accomplished. “Well, we’re just gonna have to wait and see what the headlines of tomorrow’s paper are.”

“Are you serious?” Bellona panted, shaking her head at them as she leaned back to rest against her seat. 

“What?” Sam spread his arms outwards, inviting her to explain.

“I just killed fifty-seven people and you all are like ‘it’s cool, it’s covered, no one will know it was us’.”

“Uh, yeah, pretty much that’s what happened,” Scott Lang nodded at her. The others exchanged looks with each other, not sure where Bella was going to take this.

“You didn’t have an alternative, Bella,” Clint said, taking the seat beside her. “I explained that.”

“Look, the government locked us all up because we had the audacity to openly disagree with them,” Scott piped up, surprising all present. 

“We did destroy an airport,” Wanda pointed out.

“That wouldn’t have happened if Ross hadn’t sent Tony to come ‘collect’ us,” Sam countered, dropping into the seat on the other side of Bellona. Steve, Sam, and Wanda followed suit, sitting across from the three. “I’m surprised Tony was even allowed to; Ross would’ve wanted to deploy all five sides of the Pentagon to bring us in.”

“That would’ve turned out well,” Bellona sarcastically muttered.

“Exactly,” Clint agreed, “a lot more than fifty-seven guards would have ended up dead, okay, Bella? So stop playing victim of your past — there’s nothing you can do about it now. It happened, it’s over.”

“You don’t get it, Clint!” Bellona snapped, straightening her posture to glare at him beside her. Wanda quickly rose to her feet at this sudden, aggressive motion. Bella shot her a ruthless glare before turning back to Hawkeye. “I hesitated! When you asked about the chopper — I wasn’t sure what to do, because no one was telling me what to do!”

Clint Barton gave her a baffled stare, looking around at the others as though to see if this made as much sense to them as it did to him. 

“That’s how HYDRA programmed her, Clint,” Wanda finally spoke up when she realized no one else would explain it to the archer. “She never had a choice before. Now she does. But people still ended up dead.”


	5. February 18, 1992

It was somewhere in India. A forensic science laboratory. They were being dropped over it. They had to be quick; they had to retrieve the package and vanish as soon as possible. That was the order.   
“Disable all communications via electrical discharge, ensure no intrusion from possible guards,” the Soldier was muttering orders to the war goddess in a guttural Russian growl. He was methodically loading bullets into his various pistols in a rhythmic preparatory motion. She watched this process as if transfixed by the motions of his hands, while nodding in understanding to his words. The helicopter transporting them was overpoweringly loud, but she heard him clearly. “Asphyxiation will be most efficient, interference could blow whole operation. Same transport route out, so roof access is required.”   
“Cover up?” She asked; the consequences of their actions were too obvious to go unrecognized.   
“Islamic militants,” he repeated what he'd been informed of back at headquarters. The whole operation was staged; they only had to perform their very specific roles.   
“Approaching drop zone,” their pilot called out from the front of the helicopter. Having been awaiting this cue, the pair rose in unison and stalked toward the hatches. They opened without the pilot slowing. Light rain was swirling through the chilled, mountainous air as the black-clad duo leapt out into the night.  
They landed on top of the facility in ominous silence. Hidden by their greatest ally, the night, they stalked across the rooftop with the feral grace of unparalleled predators.  
“Here,” the Soldier declared, dropping to a knee and identifying a bolted grate embedded into the roof. He reached back for the girl’s hand, grasping it tightly and placing it on the backside of the slippery metal opening. She shivered when her bare palm left the familiar silver of his hand and brushed against the foreign, icy metal. A shudder seemed to float through the air when her hand contacted this metal, followed by a sharp buzz of electricity. She waited a heartbeat as the Soldier pulled a handgun out and flicked the safety off, ready to shoot whatever possibilities lay underneath them.  
“Now,” came the order, and she applied a firm pressure from her palm onto the grate. It began to heat instantly, and she could detect the motion of the bolts on the opposing side. She felt them inch to the left before springing loose, and the grate popped open. With a snatch of his own metal arm, the Soldier pawed the cumbersome metal away, allowing them entrance into the black maw of the facility below. They were silent as she gazed into the pitch pit for a moment, her senses tingled with energy. Every movement of molecules was detected by the power buzzing deep within her chest. The stinging rain intensified, battering them with angry pelts of precipitation before her blue eyes met his.  
“Clear,” she breathed, and in a smooth, effortless motion, he hopped down into the belly of the beast.   
“Clear,” came his call from the darkness, and she followed suit, leaping down into the confines of the facility in a whirl of black and blue. He caught her lithe figure with a satisfied grunt before placing her on her feet and taking up his gun once more. “How many?”  
“Ten night shift security guards on this level, plus about fifteen other staff — close.” They were, evidently, closer than could be interpreted from this statement, as the girl sucked in a sudden breath with a serpentine hiss of air, causing him to tense into an offensive position.  
“Hello?” Came a sudden call down the dark hallway, and a light snapped into existence. It bathed the two assassins in convicting beams that triggered an instinctive reaction. A bullet whistled from the Soldier’s gun and the guard fell a second later. When he collapsed to the floor, the girl pounced over and switched the light off. Her eyes glowed with a steely luminescence as she looked back to await her order.   
“Air, now,” was the command from the masked soldier. And she obeyed. A shiver ran down her spine as her hands moved with a dexterous rhythm that was both intricate and enthralling. At least to him it was. He remained silent, allowing her to do her work. He could sense the change in the barometric pressure around them, and knew that while they might be safe in the small bubble she surrounded them with, the motions of her fingers brought death to all others.   
“Set,” she announced after a moment, raising her eyes to look at him once more.   
“Identify target.”  
“Two floors below. Northwest corridor, on the move.”   
“Stop him. I'll follow and apprehend.”   
“Affirmative,” came her brief response before she turned and dashed down the hall with the agility of a prowling wildcat. The corridors of the building were dark, the only light emitted from the sullen streetlights outside. It cast vague shadows on the shiny floor, pitching doorways and windows as grotesque, alien beings.   
She found the staircase easily, and descended in a flurry of black clothing and braided chestnut hair. Pausing at the rusty doorway to the floor, she stood in silence as she listened to the noises emitted by the building. Somewhere in the overhead floorboards, a rat — two rats — were scurrying away. A door creaked not far from where she stood, her breathing noiseless and mechanical. The rain drummed against each window with a steady beat, like the insistent tapping of a woodpecker. The lack of electrical discharge was evident, to her satisfaction. The facility was entirely and helplessly disconnected from the outside world thanks to the overpowering surge she sent through the building earlier.   
She focused on the squeaky door down the corridor before pushing the door before her open, flitting through it and into the obscured hallway. The target froze, knowing something was out of place; so she began to sprint. A flick of a bare palm was all she needed to have the target on the floor before her. Another gesture and the shout that had been released was absorbed and vanished into the air. By this time the Soldier had appeared from the other direction, and then the target could see nothing but the gleaming barrel of a handgun.   
Silence in the unlit hallway. Nothing but guttural, petrified breathing from the man on the floor, as he gazed between the two figures standing above him. One tall, the other short. The combination sent primal fear buzzing through his spine, paralyzing his muscles and ability to act. As he stared up at the pair, he wondered if this was the last sight he would witness upon this earth. But then the gun was tossed aside. It clattered to the floor with a mocking clang as the shorter figure took a few steps and placed a palm directly above the target’s forehead. The last thing he saw were two piercing blue eyes peering down at him with nothing behind them.   
The Soldier snatched up the now unconscious body of the target, then barked a quick command at the girl, who turned with a flick of her braid and led the way back up through the silent facility.   
“Roof clear,” she said as they approached the grate they had closed behind them. She popped it open again effortlessly, allowing the rain to drizzle down upon them.   
“Signal extraction from roof,” the Soldier ordered as she climbed to the top of the facility. A flash of light that could have been mistaken for lightning in the rainstorm illuminated the roof as the Soldier pulled himself and the target up to join the girl.   
It wasn’t until they were once again on the helicopter, the target secured, the Soldier cleaning his handgun while the girl toyed with her braid while watching the Soldier’s every move, did she pop the question to the pilot. Accustomed to her strange obsession, he complied to answer how long their mission had lasted.   
“Seven minutes.”


	6. July 15, 2016

“Miss Drager-”  
“T’Challa, you can call me some variation of my first name. We’re there.”  
The king of Wakanda gave the lonely dark-haired girl who sat on the sterile tabletop in the medical room a lopsided yet soft smile. “Very well, war goddess.”  
“That’s not — fine. What's the ‘diagnosis’?” Bellona Drager was eager to hear back from Wakanda’s leading medical experts as to the results of the tests they conducted on her with reference to the potential effects of what she was fairly sure was one of the fabled infinity stones lodged in her throat since she was an infant. However, she wasn’t so sure what to expect, and what her reaction ought to be to whatever T’Challa told her. What she now found herself to be sure of, however, was the expression on the king’s face.  
“The tests were. . . inconclusive,” he put forth with a mere shrug of his shoulders, causing the sharp-eyed girl to narrow her eyes in annoyance at him, king of his own country or not.  
“What the hell does that mean, Your Highness?”   
T’Challa ignored her brash words, accustomed to her tempestuous behavior by now. He was silent as he calmly headed across the room to stare down at the dense forest that surrounded the complex where they were currently quartered. It was several minutes before he began speaking, every one of which were torturous to the girl now standing behind him. “Wakanda boasts the leading medical staff in the world. We are at the forefront of scientific advancements, we can rival Stark if we wished. Your body harbors the expected functionalities and attributes of another super-soldier such as the Captain or Barnes. But that is nothing compared to the makeup of your DNA.”  
“Well, what about it?”  
“It has been fundamentally changed.”  
“HYDRA-”  
“We do not think HYDRA had a hand in this, goddess.”  
“The stone then,” Bellona muttered, not in the slightest surprised by what T’Challa was telling her. Her celestial blue eyes met his earthy brown ones as he turned away from the windows and approached her, pausing just a few paces before her.  
“Yes, we believe the infinity stone,” the king flashed out a finger to gesture to the pale spot on her throat, “altered your genetic makeup. Unfortunately, we do not possess the technology nor the knowledge to comprehend just to what extent it has changed your genetics besides from what is obvious.”  
“So — have we learned anything? Anything at all?” Bellona demanded, crossing her arms while a look of despair flashed over her face. She found herself gnawed by disappointment that Wakanda’s resources evidently failed to uncover some secret her own body had guarded for decades. Their results were nothing that S.H.I.E.L.D. had not determined years ago.   
“Yes, I believe we have. HYDRA engineered your brain to respond to Barnes. I've come to believe that they were ignorant of just what power is pooled within you.” At this the king gave her a pitying look, which had her raising her eyebrows and shifting uncomfortably. He cleared his throat and elaborated, as her eyes were beckoning him to explain. “Tying you to the Soldier was like harnessing a nuclear bomb to a hot air balloon.”  
Bellona frowned at this, “I mean, no need to get defensive, but I think Bucky’s done a good job. . .”  
“This is where it gets curious, goddess. In chaining you to Barnes, HYDRA, possibly without their own knowledge and understanding, ensured a safety system for the potentially destructive force which your body contains. However, this also means that-”  
“I have no idea what power I can control because I’ve been limited by HYDRA’s and Bucky’s control over me,” Bellona grumpily summarized for the king.  
T’Challa nodded here, before pausing slightly as his face transformed into an obscure mask. “And also that we may wish to reconsider the idea of breaking the connection between you and Barnes.”  
Bellona froze up at this statement, her eyes boring into the king’s with such intensity, his gaze returned to the forest outside the windows. “Wait a minute —  you’re saying that HYDRA engineering my brain to obey the Winter Soldier could be a good thing and we shouldn’t try to undo their obviously inhumane manipulation of my brain or else I could lose control and accidentally destroy everything?”  
T’Challa cleared his throat, flicking his stare back to her briefly. “I am saying it may have been. . . Serendipitous.”  
“Some things concerning Bucky and myself are certainly serendipitous but I’m not sure if the work HYDRA did on our brains fits that description, Your Highness.” Her tone had rapidly diminuendoed to a low growl, which caused the hand of the Black Panther to fly to his ring. He twisted it several times as both a comfort gesture and a subtle threat before responding.   
“I do not wish to impose my opinion on you, goddess, I merely wish for you to view the situation from all sides.”  
“It took you a rather long time to do that last time, Your Highness.”  
T’Challa ignored her biting jab, returning instead to a business-like tone and posture. “Our priority at the moment is ensuring Barnes’s own mind is returned to him. We cannot have another occurrence like last time; should HYDRA or another malcontent like Zemo attempt to activate the Soldier and by default control the goddess herself, it may not be so easily handled as last time. Once Barnes is himself, we will take up your situation and review it for action.”


	7. July 16, 2017

“Barnes. I don’t know why I’m talking to you while you’re in cryo. You can’t even hear me. Nobody can, actually, I’ve put an air ward around us. They’ve got cameras monitoring you at all times, in case something happens. Like me trying to rip you out of that damn machine. Again. They had to knock me out when Steve first told me you went back under.” Bellona Drager found herself glaring at the immobile form of Bucky Barnes through the frost-coated glass of the cryo machine. She was still furious about his decision, and she doubted she would ever get over it until he came back out.   
“They’ve all got good intentions here,” she continued talking nonetheless, because she had to get what she was thinking out to someone. Bucky not being able to talk back seemed like the ideal candidate. “I’m just hoping we don’t find ourselves before a gate that says ‘lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate.’  HYDRA thought they were doing a good thing too, probably. You know, when they engineered us into the deadliest tag team in the history of the galaxy. Well now T’Challa and Wakanda seem to think that they shouldn’t reverse engineer my brain from obeying you, because they don’t think I’ll be able to control the power of the stone embedded in my throat. They think that HYDRA accidentally did a good thing in chaining me to you, it made a safety net or something for the infinity stone. It also means that I have no idea of just what power I possess, because I haven’t been able to voluntarily utilize it. So I kinda hate you even more right now.”  
Bellona paused a moment, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at the cryofreeze machine. The thought flitted across her head to turn the machine off, but she figured Steve and T’Challa would have her head if she even stepped a foot in that direction. Everyone walked on eggshells around her, and it did nothing but increase her feelings of instability and insecurity.  
“I’m not sure I can stay here anymore, with Wakanda thinking I’m like some sort of wild animal who has to be chained in order to prevent a catastrophe,” she admitted through clenched teeth to the frozen Winter Soldier. “I don’t know how they hope to approach this with you in cryo. . . Allegedly they’re working on removing the tech from your brain, so no one can control you with the words. . . But they clearly still want you to be able to control me. They want to control me so by default they want to control you. . . we both know they can already do that if they want. Zemo reminded everyone of that. . .”  
She was silent for a moment, dropping her gaze to stare at the toes of her tall black boots. Her eyes were burning when she looked back up at the cryo machine. Her decision had been made the day before, but it still seemed dangerous to voice it aloud, despite the fact that it would be inaudible to all. “I’m gonna leave, Buck. . . I’ll probably end up in the States. Tony’s there. . . He’s like my Steve Rogers, my brother, you know, in spite of all the shit that went down in June. Steve is still here, if you were wondering. I haven’t told him this, because he can’t help but see the good in everyone that sometimes I’m afraid he can’t see where it ends.”  
She stared at Bucky’s silhouette through the glass. “God, I really hate you right now,” she grumbled lowly. “You really couldn’t have just told me you wanted to do this? At least I have the decency to tell you that I’m leaving — you’re not even conscious right now, but here I am spilling my heart out, telling you I currently can’t stand you, even though. . .” Bellona trailed off, her next words dying in her throat, because she wasn’t sure the situation was the best to utter them. Her lips curled into a frown as she scowled at where Bucky’s metal arm would have been had Tony not blown it off last month.   
“Goodbye, Bucky.”


	8. December 24, 1989

“Brownies are either what’s referred to as ‘cakey’ or ‘fudgy’ based on the ratio of fat to flour. You want cakey brownies, put more flour. You want fudgy brownies, increase the amount of butter or oil.”  
“I sure do love it when you science the shit out of things,” Sixteen year-old Bellona Drager rolled her eyes sarcastically as she pulled several more sticks of butter out from the fridge in the Drager kitchen and tossed them onto the counter.   
Nineteen year-old Tony Stark was sitting at one of the stools around the island where she was piling ingredients to make the aforementioned brownies. The Drager house was quiet, with the exception of the two teens and the snoozing German Shepherd at Tony Stark’s feet. James and Maria Drager had accompanied Howard and Maria Stark to a late night function to benefit the families of overseas veterans on Christmas. The teens had persuaded their parents out of them attending what, while a laudable cause, would be yet another stuffy function with onerous decorum on a night they would rather enjoy how they wished. Apparently, making brownies in the kitchen at 9:00 PM was exactly how both Bellona Drager and Tony Stark wished to spend their Christmas Eve.   
“You want some more champagne?” Tony asked the girl as she began cracking eggs into a large bowl. He raised the half-empty bottle in the direction of her half-full glass.  
“No,” she replied, causing him to merely shrug and pour himself another glass. It was the third bottle of her parents’ champagne he had downed and he was growing increasingly inebriated. And an inebriated Tony Stark was terrifyingly intelligent. He had already explained to her the differences of heat transfer in cooking — going into lengthy detail and giving quite a few examples of how convection worked in the stove, but radiation worked in the microwave. She hadn’t the heart to tell him that she already knew all this, because it would do nothing but trigger him into an emotional rant about how she was “growing up too fast”.  
“You wanna help or you wanna drink?” Bellona shot a glance at Tony as he swirled the liquid around his glass and watched it flow around the edges.   
“Drink,” he said without looking up at her as she started measuring out the ingredients into a large mixing bowl. “Don’t you guys have a housekeeper to do domestic things like cook?”  
“I told her to go home — it’s Christmas Eve, she has a family,” the girl informed him as though this ought to have been obvious.   
“We have families too. They’re not here,” his tone was lightheartedly sarcastic as he downed another glass of champagne and tapped a pencil he had pulled from God knows where against one of the empty bottles.   
“You’re the one who didn’t want to go to the dinner,” Bellona snorted, grabbing a large spoon and mixing the batter by hand. “I stayed because you whined enough at me to.”  
“Don’t you have a blending thing?” Tony took it upon his intoxicated self to run a scathing commentary on all tasks she carried out. “I’m sitting here watching you mix these brownies like you’re churning butter in the Middle Ages. I suppose you spent half your year’s earnings on the wool to hand-knit these robes?” The two had donned the silk bathrobes once their parents had departed and Tony had raided the alcohol stash. They had been early Christmas presents from Obadiah Stane, who was close friend’s with both James Drager and Howard Stark. Bellona’s was a sheer royal blue, her initials embroidered in silver on the left breast. Tony’s was a dark red, bearing his initials in gold.   
“No, m’lord, my husband brought back the silk from his voyaging in the orient,” Bellona affected a rough accent and played along with his teasing. “He says they have black stones that burn with their own fire in the far east!”  
“I have no doubt your husband would claim something so outlandish to be true,” Tony’s voice was snobbishly superior. “But I’m most grieved to hear that you would be so naive as to believe him.”  
“What in Sam Hill are you two bickering about now?” The actual supplier of the jested bathrobes decided to make an appearance at that moment. At the entrance of Obadiah Stane, Tony made a flinching motion towards the bottle of champagne, as if to hide it from the adult. But he redacted his action halfway, and instead filled Stane a glass, who chuckled and accepted it with merriment.   
“I won't suppose to know the reasons for any of this,” Obadiah took a sip of champagne, then waved a hand around at the organized mess that the kitchen had transformed into between the two teens.   
“You usually don't,” Tony cracked before raising an eyebrow at his father's business partner. “I thought you were going to the dinner tonight too?”   
“I am. It's at the Omni, which is a block away. Atmosphere was getting stuffy so I'm pretending your father sent me here to check to see if you two weren't destroying the place,” Obadiah explained, eyeing the kitchen again. “Do I even want to know what's being made?”  
“A new aerodynamic enhanced missile,” Tony stated giddily while simultaneously Bellona deadpanned: “brownies.”   
Obadiah paused at this, taking a slow sip from his glass and studying the two of them. Tony was grinning, Bellona was rolling her eyes. Finally, as the Drager’s daughter opened the oven, he shook his head. “Not sure how baking the batter is going to improve the aerodynamics of a missile.”  
“Oh, I'm not talking about Bella’s brownies,” Tony suddenly announced, putting down the bottle of champagne, plucking up a piece of paper and waving it around.   
Bellona snorted upon realization. He had taken the recipe she had been using and sketched and calculated all over it in his intoxication. In between the two eggs and one cup of flour were mathematical equations and preliminary blueprints. “Let me see,” she demanded, and Tony slipped the paper into her outstretched hand. The alcohol seemed to have little effect on him as he intently watched her pore over his designs.   
Obadiah Stane watched the two in disbelief, wondering how such young people could possess such mental prowess. “What if it was built and transported as one large missile but before it hits the target it branched off into several other missiles,” Bellona tossed out the idea, which had Tony snatching back the paper and furiously scribbling down notes and adding to his drawings as she continued speaking. “Maximize impact range while allowing for compact transport on land and while in flight — and remember if you want to use TATB, it’s safe, but it’s highly insensitive to shock, so you might need another explosive to even detonate it.”


	9. August 1, 2016

Bellona Drager stared at herself in the unpolished mirror in the tiny bathroom of the second rate hotel in Cairo, Egypt.   
She had checked in using hard cash. The combination of a few more Egyptian pounds than the room was worth and her persuasion (which involved quite a lot of eyelash batting and coy smiling) ensured the young man at the front desk was silent about her presence there.   
She had traveled far enough without being recognized, until she stepped a foot inside the cool interior of the hotel lobby in the middle of bustling Cairo. It had been completely empty in the heat of the Monday afternoon, only a nineteen year old young man at the desk, head propped on his elbow as he struggled not to doze off. When the door swung open and she entered, he had jumped to attention, tugging out his headphones and attempting to look as professional as possible. He immediately failed at this. The moment she propped her sunglasses up to rest on her forehead, his jaw dropped. It was then that Bellona Drager learned that she was truly no longer a ghost story. Maybe it had been the events in June, or the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the release of data to the public. Either way, the young man had stuttered and mumbled his way through their conversation in which she determined that he was the son of the owner, and ensured that he would not inform anyone of her presence there.   
Troubled blue eyes stared back at her. The mirror reflecting her inner thoughts and emotions. She’d been traveling through the African continent for weeks. It had been fairly easy until she reached heavily populated areas. Such as now. She wasn’t exactly sure who she was trying to hide from — everyone, she supposed. She feared T’Challa might send out parties searching for her. Then there was the ever-present threat of running into a HYDRA faction or rogue HYDRA agents as she had with Rumlow before. Even the U.S. government and the United Nations could be looking for her. And she had realized she wasn’t ready to face Tony yet. She wasn’t sure how either of them would react regarding the events in June.  
Bellona sighed heavily as she ran a hand through her loose locks. She was too recognizable. The entire world knew her profile. So it wasn’t difficult for her to make a few simple decisions.   
Chopping off her long hair was more liberating than she had anticipated. For so long it had been utilized as a power sink for a storm or two. Her trusty backup weapon, never failing her or the mission. As the emancipated chestnut tresses dropped down into the stained porcelain sink, she shuddered as a chill went through her. The world had been nothing but unpredictable chaos since the Winter Soldier’s name had appeared in the newspaper proclaiming the bombing of the U.N. assembly in Vienna. Everything was backwards, and she had no idea what to make of it or how to navigate it.   
She strapped the knife back to her upper arm when the ends of her dark hair just reached the tips of her shoulders. She shook her head back and forth like a dog shakes water off its coat, relishing in the novel feeling it gave her. After a long glance at herself in the mirror, Bellona’s eyes dropped to the tangles of hair within the sink and she grimaced. A snap of her fingers and the strands that once harnessed blizzards and thunderstorms burned away to nothing but curls of gray smoke.   
Bellona studied herself in the mirror again. Her look had certainly changed. It gave her a sharper but more relaxed air in comparison to the former disciplined braids. The pale scar on her throat still remained, peeking out at her from under her chin like a smug confidante. Blue eyes still threatened to gouge holes in the wall behind the mirror.   
Retrieving a maroon headscarf she had purchased at an Egyptian bazaar she had passed, she wrapped it around her neck and head, successfully hiding the scar. Then she returned her sunglasses to their usual spot upon her nose and observed herself in the mirror. Cheap silver bangles she had picked up covered the harsh brands on both her wrists. The cross-shoulder brown leather bag she carried contained the abundant amounts of international currencies she had picked up at different locations. This and the combination of her long, white flowing dress, gladiator sandals, headscarf and sunglasses made her appear as one of the university students assimilating to the local culture, or the daughter of one of the more wealthy local landowners.   
With one last look at her new appearance, she exited the bathroom. The hotel room was comfortably furnished, it was no five star Ritz in New York City, but living in a rundown Bucharest apartment hadn’t made her picky. It was nearing midnight, but she had no intention of staying the night. Sneaking out of hotels in the darkness had for the most part, guaranteed keeping potential threats off her tail. But the moment she stepped out into the hallway that led down to the lobby, she knew her lack of confrontation had ended.


	10. August 1, 2016

“What are you showing me, FRIDAY?” Tony Stark asked his AI when a video popped up on the lower left corner of the current screen he was brooding over. He was swiveling about in one of the wheeled chairs he had placed in his favorite lab in the Avengers Compound in upper New York state, working on designs for a new Spider suit for a certain Queens teenager. “I’m kinda trying to have some fun right now.” Putting time and energy into the vigilante arachnid child allowed him a welcome distraction from the screaming concerns in his head.  
“You asked me to keep an eye out for any potential HYDRA activity,” FRIDAY replied. “Something’s flushed a sleeper cell out in Cairo. They’re on the move and searching for something. Or someone.”  
He didn’t particularly remember adding so much emotion into his artificial intelligence’s voice when he wrote the software, but it made him sweep aside the suit prototype and enlarge the video FRIDAY had found. One of his very prominent screaming concerns in his head suddenly started throwing a temper tantrum.  
“Who are they after?” He muttered, watching as the grainy video showed at least a dozen heavily armed men in what appeared to be a hotel lobby. They were dropping into positions as though expecting an assault from down the hall. “Can we get the quality cleaned up at all? It’s a shitty camera.”  
“Doing my best, boss,” FRIDAY replied, and the image cleared up slightly, though not as much as he would have preferred..  
“That’s not your best, FRIDAY,” Tony remarked sarcastically. “And you sure it’s HYDRA?”  
“The tattoo on what appears to be their leader,” the AI pointed out, and a small screen popped up which zoomed in on one of the group’s neck. A still image revealed the unmistakable HYDRA head and tentacles tattooed between the man’s man’s mask and black military jacket.   
“Damn Nazis,” Tony muttered, brushed aside this small screen and focusing on the actions. “This live?”  
“Yes, boss.”  
“Get me the coordinates,” he said as the leader of the group cautiously began taking a few steps down the hall, his gun hidden behind his back, as though not to frighten someone. He kept his other hand behind his back and used it to send signals to his men. They remained in their places — a few behind the front desk, others behind tables and chairs, all with guns at the ready. “There’s no other cameras in the room?”  
“Only the one in the lobby.”  
“Do we have authority to act in Egypt?” Tony’s voice was rather casual.  
“No, boss,” FRIDAY replied quietly.  
“Damn,” he leaned back in his lab chair, rubbing a hand along his jaw, deliberating intently. “Keep the camera rolling. Pull up all others in a three block radius.” He kept his eyes attached to the screen before him, ignoring the others that popped up around him at the moment.   
“Get a satellite aligned with Egypt, too, FRIDAY,” Tony added, summoning a keyboard and attempting to manually improve the image quality. After a moment, he banished it in frustration. “Shit hardware.”  
He tensed up suddenly when several of the group of men began sprinting out of the lobby and down a hallway, evidently chasing someone. Several suspenseful moments passed before FRIDAY spoke again.  
“I’ve pulled the cameras from the front of the building,” Tony turned to these, which showed the continued chase.   
“Record this,” he ordered, squinting at the images playing out. A running female figure in white came stumbling to a halt before a group of armed men. Evidently a shot was fired, as the white figure staggered backwards before collapsing to the ground. “Zoom in,” Tony demanded, “run any recognition tests we can.”  
“Tests failed,” FRIDAY reported, as the group of men seized the figure before dragging her into the back of their armored van. “The camera can’t pick up on a face from this angle, and the image quality is interfering with the others.”  
Tony Stark ran his hands down his face in aggravation as the screen showed the van speed off into the night. Logic told him to ignore it and put the whole scenario out of his mind. But a howling demon in the back of his mind was clamoring for his attention.   
“FRIDAY, prep a chopper. I’ve a sudden desire to see the pyramids.”


	11. August 2, 2016

“Shit,” the word rolled from Bellona Drager’s tongue with a thunderous force. But it sounded obligatory. Going head to head with a HYDRA faction was not her ideal situation. Much less, to go head to head with a HYDRA faction in the enclosed quarters of the rundown Cairo hotel. She knew the group of thugs down the hall from her were HYDRA, and she also knew that there were several more out of sight.   
“Hello, sweetheart,” the leader was calling out to her, in English. Faux kindness laced his tone. “Do you need a ride home?”  
“Fucking pathetic,” she sighed under her breath before completely stepping out of the room behind her and securing the door. “No, thank you,” her reply sounded ignorant and saccharine, as if she was a silly little girl who was unaware that the buff, domineering man at the end of the hall was not holding a fully loaded AK-47 behind his broad back. Or that his cronies were also armed to the teeth.   
“C’mon, we know you’re lost, we came to drive you home,” he continued in his fabricated voice as Bellona began to twirl one of the strands of hair that had escaped from her headscarf around her finger.   
“Unbelievable,” she grumbled to herself before shaking her head in plain sight. “I doubt you know where I live,” she tittered coyly, tossing in a giggle for effect.   
“Oh, don’t worry, we know,” he assured her, and took a few steps down the hall. All the while, making slight gestures and nods to the men around him, who immediately began shifting and positioning themselves.   
“Who are you?” Bellona maintained the silly intonation of her voice, but dropped her initial strategy.   
“Friends,” was the immediate response.  
“That’s what they all say,” Bellona murmured to herself, glancing down at the long, flowing white dress, romanesque sandals, and draped headscarf. It was all too baggy and not supportive. “I’m not fucking dressed for this,” she groaned in realization as the leader continued advancing down the hall towards her. The others trailed behind him, a few stayed in the lobby. She knew there were several more outside. He stopped a few paces from her, close enough for her to spot the distinct tattoo on his neck and the caution flickering in his eyes. He was perturbed by her lack of reaction, as she knew he would be.   
“So,” he coughed, “how about that ride?”  
“It depends on what that AK is loaded with.” She was surprised when her response baffled him, she figured a hardened agent like him would not have been thrown into such bewilderment upon a simple change in her tone. Nevertheless, it gave her a brief advantage; she capitalized upon this by tugged her headscarf free and tossing the material before him so that he was blinded to her next movements. The only exit was past him and his men, but instead she turned tail and fled down the hall.   
Yelling and shouting pursued her. She ignored it for the moment, as expletives poured out of her mouth, her bag thumped heavily against her side as she sped through the dimly lit halls of the hotel. The building was poorly designed and even poorly constructed; if she ran for long enough, she would end up in the lobby, where the rest of the HYDRA squadron lay waiting.   
“I really don’t wanna fight through them all,” she grunted to herself as she tossed her sunglasses off and threw them behind her. Another string of swears followed the novel sound of barking bullets. They sprayed around her, chipping paint and plaster off the walls and ceiling. She wasn’t sure when all the lights in the building had gone out, but she suddenly became very aware of the fact that she was sprinting down a dark hallway.   
“Yes!” Bellona exclaimed, when a door a few paces before her opened and a curious hotel resident peeked out to see what the commotion was. She had been holding onto a glimmer of hope for this very thing to happen. “Excuse me!” She gasped as she latched onto the doorframe and swung herself into the room, dragging the door shut and the poor man into the room with her. He immediately began babbling in very upset Arabic at her. She disregarded him for the moment as she began pushing the nearest objects in front of the door, which happened to be a heavy suitcase and a rickety wooden chair. Then she shouted a curt sentence in Arabic back at him, along the lines of how stupid he was for opening the door when he clearly heard the gunshots, which shut him up for the moment. Pounding on the door had commenced as she tore the musty curtains down from the window and removed the few bolts that held the streaked glass of the window in place.  
“Screw it,” she said upon realizing the window opened to a dirty alley, heaped with mountains of discarded trash from the surrounding establishments. It reeked of dung, rotten food, and decomposition, but she flung herself out of the window and landed with a swift role on the cleanest patch of footing in the alley. Yelling from the room above had erupted when she leapt to her feet; without glancing back she began to sprint down the alley the only way she could, towards the front of the building.   
Bellona was well aware of the foolishness of her actions. A myriad of options available to someone with her abilities and she chose the one that required minimum thinking. She just fucking ran. But then again, she was never the one to make the decisions as to what her course of action should be. So she wasn’t quite sure why she found herself surprised to stumble upon several heavily armed HYDRA agents at the end of the alley. The moment their guns trained themselves on her, her muscles seized and froze, her eyes bugging at the appearance of more armed men. They immediately began firing at her.   
“Oh shit, this is bad,” Bellona whined to herself; she went to instinctively duck the bullets that sailed around her. The idea of throwing up an air ward occurred to her, but not before she felt a bullet bite into the deep muscle of her right shoulder. She screamed aloud at this, jerking backwards in reaction and reaching up to clutch at the wound in horror. It stung with an inexorable burning that was augmented upon her realization that whatever she had been shot with had been laced with a strong sedative. Coarse shouting, the screeching of an engine, and the scent of burning metal was all she was aware of before darkness enclosed itself around her.


	12. August 2, 2016

Bellona awoke to a sharp pain in her shoulder. She flicked her eyes open and blinked heavily for a few moments before her brain was capable of comprehending her surroundings. She was in the back of a speeding van, masked guards armed to the teeth all around her. Upon awakening, the one on her left immediately raised his gun, ruthlessly pressing its cold barrel against the bare skin of her neck. Her heart raced against its smooth metal, and she dared not move another muscle. 

Her hands had been mercilessly tied behind her back, with some sort of metal enclosing her palms. The knife attached to her arm had vanished. Her ankles had also been lashed together with thick chains. Her formerly white dress was stained and ripped, and she was quite sure the guards around her had no complaint about the fact that her shoulders were bare and most of her legs were exposed. Her bag was being ruffled through by one of the guards, who was making pleasantly surprised noises when he discovered the copious amounts of cash in a plethora of currencies. She had the urge to roll her eyes at him before focusing on her shoulder wound. She had surged back into consciousness because one of the guards had gripped the injured shoulder and squeezed forcefully. The wound pulsed in agony, making Bellona grit her teeth, not only at the pain, but at the circumstances she now found herself in. The van tossed about the bumpy road it was flying down with seemingly reckless abandon. Bellona couldn't help the hysterical giggle that escaped her lips at how downhill her situation had gone. This earned her a shouted threat from one of the men in the truck. She snapped her eyes open and shot the man a glare so venomous, the entire back of the van was suddenly experiencing a pressure drop that had the guards squirming in their seats. The snarling barrel of the gun was forced against her neck in response, and she wiggled in discomfort at this. This infuriated her. If only she could  _ think- _

An unexpected increase of speed in the van and a subsequent swerve sent her tumbling against the guard to her right. He caught her roughly, grabbing onto her injured right shoulder to steady her. Bellona hissed at the strike of pain that clapped through her upper body and received this guard’s gun raised to her neck in response. With guns at point blank range awaiting the slightest movement on either side of her, her hands incapacitated and her lower body immobile, she closed her eyes again and focused on her breathing. 

_ Inhale. Exhale. Think. Why the hell can’t I think?! What would Bucky do? Oh, he would just tell you what to do. So what would that be- _

Her mental argument was interrupted by a load of shouted orders, followed by the van coming to a gut-wrenching stop. Her eyes flew open in time for the doors of the van to open just as the guard on her right fired his gun into her jugular. 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  


Bellona Drager returned to consciousness to the steady rocking of waves against a hull. Her gut informed her it would be unwise to open her eyes and alert whoever was around her to her awakened state. So she continued breathing in ragged, short gasps and focused her attention on her surroundings. 

There were four men guarding her; she could taste the metal of their tranquilizer filled guns — they were very close to her. Her hands were still wrested behind her back, immobilized in a metal contraption. Her ankles still lashed together, her left shoulder was leaning against a cold hard surface. Her right shoulder was still tingling from the bullet wound, the bullet still embedded in her flesh, causing the area to pulse with warm waves of energy that was radiating from across her clavicle, through her throat and down into her chest. 

It was evident she was on a boat, cruising north on the Nile, towards the Mediterranean. She could smell the water in the air, mixed with the gasoline of the boat’s engine that was chugging away. It was a rather large boat, too. She could detect at least three dozen other men aboard it. A conversation was being held on the floor above her, in a mix of Arabic and English. It was an argument — she focused on the words being said — they were about Iron Man. In another room aboard the ship, a group of men were playing a game, wagering bets using the money retrieved from her bag. The man steering the ship was smoking a cigarette, his third one, judging from the scents of burnt ashes in a tray beside him. 

Bellona was almost startled out of her observing into opening her eyes by a sudden statement by a man who walked into the area where she was being held. 

“Boss says tranq her again as soon as she wakes up,” he uttered in Arabic, and those around her grunted in acknowledgement. “Can’t risk what happens if she does before we get to base.”

 

* * *

  
  
  


Tony Stark was growing increasingly impatient as he waited for the hotel owner’s son to finish explaining the events that had occurred that day to the local police. The tech genius was irritably brushing imaginary dust off his custom tailored mahogany colored Italian silk blend suit. The one that meant he meant business. Leaning against the side of the hotel in question and scuffing his foot against the ground, his dark sunglasses did naught to hide his evident restlessness. He had come to Egypt because something was gnawing at the edges of his mind, and he was determined to either confirm his fears or put them to rest.

Unable to wait for the young man to finish his report to the police, Tony Stark glanced up and down the street before pushing off the building and slipping through the front door into the hotel lobby. It appeared relatively undisturbed to his quick scan, so he proceeded down the hallway, hands in his pockets, sunglasses still perched on his nose. 

He was halfway down one hallway when he stopped to glance down at a woman’s headscarf that had been tossed onto the floor. He thought it was a rather ugly brown color before he lifted his sunglasses and noted that it was a dark maroon. Giving no further thought to it, he dropped his sunglasses back over his aching eyes and continued his inquisitive stroll down the hallway. 

Tony Stark came to a second stop when he stumbled upon a pair of silver aviator sunglasses that had also been tossed haphazardly onto the floor. One of his most stressing concerns suddenly seized a microphone and started shrieking at him upon sighting the glasses on the floor of the threadbare carpet in the hotel hallway somewhere in Cairo, Egypt. His own glasses were snatched off and shoved into a pocket of his suit as he bent down to pick the pair up off the floor. He had no trouble recognizing them.

Tony Stark then let out a violent string of expletives before turning and sprinting back down the hallway, sunglasses in hand. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Bellona Drager knew she couldn’t move a muscle lest she give away the fact she was awake. She refused to risk being sedated again, fearing the repercussions the drugs would have on her, and wishing to maintain some sort of control of the situation she was in. 

The ship had sailed well down the Nile and was quickly approaching the Mediterranean — she could smell the salt interspersed within the air currents, despite being belowdecks. 

Drawing back her attention from her observations, she returned to the battle that had begun raging in her mind before she had been tranqed the second time. Her mind was struggling to come up with a solution as to how to disentangle herself from these rather unpleasant circumstances.  _ Think, goddammit!  _

 

* * *

  
  
  


“Alright, playtime is over, you’re talking to me now,” Tony Stark interrupted the police questioning of the hotel owner’s son (apparently his father was nowhere to be found). He was in no mood to play nice. “Don’t give me that look, you know who I am,” he snapped at the officers, who had barked at him in stiff Arabic about how he was disrupting a police investigation. 

“You want an upgrade?” Tony pointed at the battered phone the young man was clutching. He still had one earbud in his ear; he couldn’t be more than twenty years old. “I’ll give you an upgrade, new phone and headphones, one of those nice expensive pairs,” he informed the kid, draping an arm around his shoulders and steering him away from the chagrined police officers. “You do speak English, right?”

“Yes, sir,” the kid stuttered out, glancing down at his phone as if envisioning what a brand new one would look like in his calloused hand. “You’re — you’re Iron Man-”

“That’s right, but right now I’m more interested in what you can tell me about these,” Tony released the kid from his grip and held up the pair of silver aviator sunglasses for the kid to observe. 

“Someone came in yesterday, wearing them,” he replied nervously, as though having a debate inside his head. 

“New phone sounds pretty nice, huh?” Tony cajoled him, “who was it?”

“A girl, a pretty girl,” the kid muttered, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing down at the dusty street they stood on. 

“I have the feeling you know her name,” the billionaire coaxed the Cairo native, dangling the silver sunglasses before him.

“She didn’t want me to tell anyone — she, she paid well too-” the kid blurted out at once.

“Then can you tell me what she was wearing?” Tony switched his approach, making a note to check the Drager finances.

“Uh, those glasses,” the kid pointed at the sunglasses, “and a red scarf, covering her head, and a white dress, I think.”

“If she was so pretty, then you were obviously checking her out, so do you  _ think  _ that’s what she was wearing or do you  _ know _ ?”

His cheeks flushed a brilliant red before he murmured, “I know.”

“If she didn’t want you to tell anyone who she was, how did that gang of thugs know she was here?” Tony’s voice dropped an octave, making the kid tense up and begin rubbing his thumb over his phone in a habitual comfort gesture.

“I didn’t tell anyone, I swear!” He exclaimed, the whites of his eyes clearly visible in the darkness of the early morning hour. “They just came! Out of nowhere! It wasn’t me! Please-”

“Shh!” Tony gestured for the kid to lower his voice, as the officers had turned and glanced over to see what the commotion was about. “I believe you. Did you tell them her name?” He pointed over at the officers, shuffling and coughing a way down the sidewalk.

“No,” the kid promised, vigorously shaking his head.

“Good,” Tony clapped him on the shoulder. “Keep it that way.” 

 

* * *

  
  
  


Bellona Drager couldn’t believe that she blew it. The ship had come to a bumpy halt, and she heard men shouting to throw the lines out when she her nose wrinkled in response to the sudden assault of new scents that came with the new location. Sea salt, sweat on warm bodies, and rotting fish. This slight muscle motion was met with a sharp jab by the guard on her left as he plunged a fresh tranquilizer dart into her neck. She managed to hiss out a few well chosen curses before blackness met her once more. 

When she awoke, she was being bounced around in the back of a van again. It was sweltering hot, and it smelled of sunbaked sand and roasting metal. There were ten armed men in the back of the van, plus two in the front, one driving, the other talking animatedly on the phone. He was haggling over prices with someone who was speaking Kurdish on the other end. 

Bellona’s eyes flew open when someone deliberately applied pressure to the bullet wound in her right shoulder. She glanced around and met the dark eyes of the man who had done it. He had the muzzle of his gun aimed directly at her forehead, it was fully loaded, but she knew he had no intention of firing it. Of greater concern were the two on either side of her, their tranquilizer guns melting into the sweat that had begun to condense on her neck. 

“What do you want?” She rasped out to the man in front of her. The lower half of his face was covered with a camouflage patterned cloth, leaving only his eyes visible. But he was not the same man who had spoken to her in the hotel. 

“Where is he?” His voice was a deep guttural grunt. 

“Who?” Bellona fired back, not daring to wriggle out of the uncomfortable position she was in. Her hands and ankles still chained, she was supported only by the side of the van which her back was against. 

“The Soldier,” the man snapped, making a show of cocking his pistol in front of her face. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” she answered with a snarl of pain as the man on her right clamped a heavy hand to her injury and squeezed with purpose. A shudder passed through her as a buttery heat began to arise in the location of the injury. It pounded through her upper body, centralizing around her throat and lower neck. When the man removed his hand from the wound, all were dumbfounded when the bullet that had been lodged within her bone and muscle popped out on its own accord with a resounding plunk. It rolled across the floor of the moving van until it came to a stop at the feet of a man sitting in the back. Bellona couldn’t see his face, but she could taste the wave of horrified fear that suddenly rolled off him. 

Her laugh was sinister, but it quickly faded away as the man interrogating her seized her by the throat and slammed her head against the side of the van. She winced at the contact but his grip on her vanished immediately. Instead, the man screeched a curse in his native dialect and waved his hand around frantically, attempting to cool the second degree burns that had occurred as a result of his brief skin to skin contact with the bewildered, blue-eyed girl before him. 

“What the fu-” her exclamation of surprise transformed into a shout of agony when the man, in his pain-induced rage, lowered his gun and fired another bullet into the shoulder that had just healed. Her whole body bucked in reaction to the direct hit, initiating both tranquilizer guns on either side of her to fire. 

 

* * *

  
  
  


“What’s the location of that boat, FRIDAY?” Tony Stark asked his AI as he climbed back into his private helicopter after interrogating the native Egyptian. He had managed to track the van that had disappeared from the Cairo hotel, to find that it had unloaded its passengers onto a yacht that had begun sailing up the Nile.

“It’s docked at a private port in Jableh, Syria, boss.”

“Docked?”

FRIDAY was silent for a moment before responding. “No lifeforms detected aboard.”

Tony let out a string of words that would have had his mother looking at him in shame. “Do we have any leads on where its jolly sailors went?”

“Satellite was tracking the yacht, its footage shows three different vehicles leave the port,” FRIDAY replayed the videos on his helmet’s screen. Tony watched them in annoyance as his fingers hovered over a screen, trying to determine what coordinates to next direct himself to. "Replay it to the point they unload the boat,” he ordered, and the footage rewound itself. “Any heat signatures on those suspiciously large bags they’re carrying?”

“The satellite that took this footage isn’t equipped with that technology, boss,” FRIDAY reminded him in a quiet voice.

“Goddammit!” Tony shouted, the urge to punch something overwhelming his capacity to think logically. “Put that on the list of upgrades.”

“You got it, boss,” FRIDAY said. “Reminder that taking any action in Syria and Iraq will be a violation of -”

“Noted, can you let me think for a minute,” Tony seethed internally. HYDRA had done it. They had gotten their sticky fingers on Bellona Drager. The one thing he had feverishly tried to ensure would never happen again. Now he was stuck in civilian clothing in Cairo, Egypt while a terrorist organization carried the girl he saw as his sister deeper into the Middle East. And it was increasingly looking like there was nothing he could do about it.


	13. August 3, 2016

Bellona Drager rolled into consciousness to the musty scent of unwashed clothes, unventilated air, and human sweat. She dared not open her eyes; instead, she listened intently to the conversation playing out around her. It was alternating between Arabic and Kurdish, between two groups, bickering over a price. The price of her, she was fast to realize. 

_ Baghdad.  _ She could sense the city, like a humming bee just over her shoulder, it was near, but unseen. 

“- _ any use without the Soldier?” _

_ “We haven’t tested that, but she would fetch a higher price in any other market. No need to be so cheap.” _

_ “We just want our money’s worth.” _

_ “Do whatever you want with her, just remember that she is wanted in every country.” _

_ “What use is a weapon if you cannot use it?” _

_ “You can always sell it again.” _

They argued a bit more before arriving at an agreement that was clearly pleasing to all parties involved. Except, of course, to her. She thought she should have been worth more. 

Bellona listened attentively as the HYDRA agents departed. The environment was intriguing; it was a base carved out of the side of a hill, the walls built of clay and sandstone. A subterranean stream trickled beneath the foundation of the makeshift building, masking something bubbling further below, deep within the porous ground. With HYDRA’s absence, she was acutely aware of the sudden lack of weaponry. Whoever she had just been sold to were certainly armed, but between the fifteen of them, she only identified a Kalashnikov on each, a bountiful favorite in this part of the world. The group was low on ammunition, but what gave her hope was the fact that none of the weapons were loaded with tranquilizer.

So she had the courage to open her eyes and squint about. She was in the front part of the base, the scent of sunbaked clay was ubiquitous, a dark heavy material served as a roof and the group of men who stood around her muttering to themselves could be accurately described as the stereotypical terrorists who haunted American nightmares. Complete with long scraggly beards, frenzied eyes, and black cloth draped over their heads to obscure their faces, they clutched their AKs with determined vigor upon noticing her conscious state. 

One of them barked a brief order to the few closest to her, who exchanged looks between themselves as the others slipped out of the room through a large hanging piece of cloth that seemed to be sewn out of several goatskins. Those who remained shifted nervously on their feet as her glowing blue eyes sized them up. Their guns remained trained on her, in spite of her ankles being chained together and her hands still wrenched behind her back and enclosed in whatever metal entrapment HYDRA had devised.

The conversation occurring outside piqued her attention upon the mention of the name Tony Stark. She shifted nervously against her bonds, attempting to straighten herself against the grainy wall behind her. In response, the men around her raised their guns in a clear threat, shouting at her in rapid Kurdish to cease her motions. 

Her laugh was a low purr. “ _ Shoot me, go ahead.”  _

  
  


* * *

 

 

“Boss, you have an incoming video call,” FRIDAY announced as Tony Stark anxiously paced around his laboratory back in New York. He had reluctantly returned to the States, knowing he could work best out of his own lab and needing to firmly squash the rumors that he had been sighted in the slums of Cairo. That was always suspicious. Diagrams and maps of the major roads and cities of Syria and the rest of the Middle East were spread out before him as holograms. Across the room, he had pulled up every newspaper article and social media post concerning a possible sighting of Bellona Drager. They ranged from Taiwan to Norway to Guatemala. Most were false; none were helpful.

“From who?” Tony muttered, irritated at having been interrupted in his frantic research. 

“It’s an unknown caller but I’ve traced its coordinates to a location just outside Baghdad.”

At this speck of information, Tony ceased poring over maps and allowed the screen to enlarge itself. “Play it but turn off and mute this side of the camera. Get me exact coordinates and record everything. Get ready to translate it, but hit me with subtitles anyway.”

“You got it,” FRIDAY said before accepting the call and allowing the video to play out on a new screen before him. 

“Shit!” Tony exclaimed upon sighting what appeared in front of him, and he was instantly glad he decided to make it a one way call. Bellona Drager, looking weary and exhausted, was staring at him with hazy blue eyes. Aside from her general state of exhaustion, what most astonished him was how her hair had been chopped to shoulder length. It lay quietly about her head like a dull chestnut halo. The dress she wore was in tatters, impossible to tell it had been white previously; a bloodstain ran down the front half of it, stemming from a wound on her shoulder. Dried blood covered this shoulder, it stretched with sanguineous tracts across her clavicle and down the pale skin of her right arm. Dark bags were under her eyes, and did nothing but emphasize the heavenly blue of her shimmering but weary eyes. Her hands were clearly tied behind her back, and her legs were also bound. Two masked men stood on either side of her, each holding the muzzles of their guns to her head. One of these men began speaking in a foreign language, his tone mercilessly imperative.

“Translation?” Tony snapped and FRIDAY immediately began translating the dialogue and transcripted subtitles on the bottom of the screen. It was no less than expected: a group of terrorists demanding a ransom from him in exchange for Bella. “Shit,” he muttered again, running a hand through his hair and keeping his eyes glued to the limp figure of Bellona Drager through the screen. 

When the masked man finished speaking, he prodded Bella with his gun, making her flinch as the metal came into close contact with the blatant bullet wound on her shoulder. 

“Hey, Tony,” came Bellona’s thick, tired voice, speaking English now. He could hear the tranquilizer in her pronunciation, but he picked up on the note of caution present. “Don’t forget our fathers,” here she paused, as if ensuring he understood her message. Then she continued, growing more cryptic by the second. “I have a pack of cigs; it’s dangerous to smoke. I’ve lost my lighter, but I’d like a match.”

The screen went black as the call was terminated. Tony Stark was frozen for a moment, before he snatched the nearest object, which happened to be a coffee mug, and flung it across the laboratory. It shattered against the far wall and landed in pieces on the floor. 

“The mug I got you for your birthday ten years ago? Really?” A familiar but long unheard voice echoing across the lab had Tony whipping around, thunderstruck.

“Pepper?” 

 


	14. August 3, 2016

 

Tony Stark’s breath froze in his throat, he had to clutch onto the nearest lab table to steady himself at the shock of seeing his. . . well, he wasn’t quite sure what their relationship status was at the moment. He thought they were “on a break” but here she was, in his lab, looking downright beautiful as always, just a few feet away from him, and. . . oh God, she was crying.

“Tony,” she replied in a rather steady voice despite the glimmer of tears threatening to pour down her cheeks. “I saw.”

“What?” His voice cracked and he found himself coughing to compose himself. “Uh, the video? You saw it? How much?”

“All of it,” she said with a sympathetic smile that revealed the ransom video was the cause of her emotional lacrimation. “It — it’s almost like eight years ago, when it was you. . .”

This thought hadn’t even occurred to him, but now that Pepper had brought it up, he couldn’t tear his mind away from it. It  _ was  _ disturbingly similar to how he had been kidnapped and held for ransom by terrorists all those years ago. He hoped it wasn’t becoming a trend.

“She seems to be taking the situation fairly well, though,” Pepper continued, “thank goodness they don’t just shoot her on the spot.”

“They wouldn’t,” Tony finally found his voice. He coughed one last time, “she’s too valuable.”

“To you or to others?”

“To everyone.”

“Then why did they reach out to you?” Pepper popped the question, coming to stand beside the table Tony hadn’t even realized he was now sitting on top of. 

“Most money,” he shrugged, running his hands back and forth as his mind chugged away. “That’s what worries me.”

“What?”

“I’m probably one of many other bidders,” he elaborated, and pulled up the video to watch it again. 

“So what are you gonna do?” the redhead pushed him. 

“I’m not authorized to fly anything into Iraq, the government would have my head,” he scowled, pausing the recording so he could better study Bellona’s condition. She didn’t appear to have any other major wounds besides her shoulder. But whatever had been probably very literally dumped into her bloodstream as a sedative was worrisome.  

“What did she mean by that bit at the end?” Pepper asked with a frown. “She mentioned your fathers?”

“We don’t negotiate with terrorists,” Tony told her with a sigh; James Drager and Howard Stark would damn him straight to hell if he even considered paying the twenty million dollars demanded for Bellona Drager, not when he had the capability to retrieve her within minutes. “That was our dads’ policy back in the day. They were real hardliners about it.”

“So she doesn’t want you to pay them off,” Pepper confirmed, her eyebrows furrowing. “If you did, the chance you even get her back after that is slim, you know that right? It could be a trick.”

“It is,” Tony agreed with her, wondering if this was a sign she wanted to reinstate their relationship. “How did you get in here?”

“Don’t change the subject. You have to do something, Tony. You can’t just leave her there with those monsters,” Pepper said firmly, crossing her arms over her immaculately pressed white blouse and giving him a glare worthy of the girl they were speaking of. “How many times have you referred to her as your sister? The last of your family?”

“A lot,” he admitted quietly, avoiding Pepper’s gaze by staring at the video, playing on loop on a small screen before him. “She. . . uh, well, I guess she is.”

“So are you going to sit in here, staring at screens, doing nothing, wallowing in self pity, or are you going to get up and do something about the fact that your sister is tied up in a cave in God-knows-where with guns being held to her head?” Pepper placed a hand over the screen Tony was glued to. His eyes studied her flawlessly manicured red-tipped nails before he tossed the screen aside and pushed himself off the table, startling her with his sudden movements.

“What can I do?” He clapped his hands together to stress his point. “The only way I can do anything about this is to request permission to operate in Iraq, and that would involve telling them why — and if I tell anyone Bellona Drager’s whereabouts, then I have to turn her over to the government because she’s on the most wanted list! If I go by myself and bust her out, I’m a hypocrite and violate the very agreement I signed in June! It’s a lose-lose situation!”

Pepper pursed her lips, her face a mask as she listened to his rant. Her arms remained crossed as she tapped a black heel against the floor of the laboratory. “What did she mean by the cigarettes reference?”

“I’m working on it,” Tony muttered, beginning to pace back and forth, rubbing his hands together. “Cigarettes, lighter, matches. . . dangerous to smoke. . . .”

“Of course it’s dangerous to smoke, it’s linked directly to lung cancer,” Pepper tossed this fact in. “But why is that relevant? I didn’t think Bellona smoked.”

“She doesn’t,” he said; pressing a hand to his head, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “It’s a metaphor.”

“A metaphor for what?” 

“Herself,” Tony snapped his head up, dark eyes suddenly alight with realization. “FRIDAY, get me a map with the exact coordinates of where the video was taken, and then superimpose all known oil deposits over it.”

“On it,” FRIDAY responded, and what Tony requested immediately appeared. A map of Iraq blew up before the two in the lab, the location of the video marked as a pulsing blue sphere. In a heartbeat, oil wells and reserves were shown in shimmering yellow. The blue sphere was directly atop one of these spots.

“Barnes isn’t with her, so she can’t make decisions,” Tony reckoned, staring at the glowing map before him. “She can’t be serious. . . .”

“What?” Pepper asked, trying to get inside his mind, as she was failing to understand the logic behind this all. 

“She wants me to blow the place up,” Tony announced with a groan, massaging his weary eyes with a hand. “That’ll probably give her the spark needed to handle it on her own. . . .”

“Well it doesn’t look like it’s a very populated place-” Pepper began rationalizing, but he was quick to stop her.

“I can’t launch an ICBM!” he yelped, growing increasingly flustered. “I don’t have that authority, I never did. I only made the weapons, I didn’t use them. And that violates almost every international treaty in the world, not to mention the Accords!  _ And  _ it’s Iraq!”

“She said a match, not a nuclear weapon,” Pepper pointed out. “What if it doesn’t have to be a missile?”


	15. August 3, 2016

“What did you just do?” Pepper Potts reentered the lab where Tony Stark had holed himself up for the past several hours. The redhead was trailed by James Rhodes, who limped in slowly. Both had witnessed Tony hang up on what seemed to be a very intense phone call. 

“I am now the largest shareholder of Exxon Mobil,” he announced, taking the mug of coffee Pepper had brought him and shooting Rhodes a questioning glance. He hadn’t seen Rhodey for a few days. 

“Why?” Pepper and Rhodes asked simultaneously. 

“In a few hours, a preliminary drilling team will be sent to this location,” Tony turned to the lab table behind him and had FRIDAY enlarge the map for them to see. He pointed at the blue orb that hovered outside the capital of Iraq. “And perhaps, an accident will occur, nothing too major, just some Joe Schmoe making an everyday mistake. It won’t be his fault.”

“You're joking right?” Rhodes stared at Tony like he had lost his mind. “Wouldn't it have been cheaper to just pay the ransom?” It was clear that Pepper had informed Rhodes of the situation at hand.

“Lose twenty million and not get Bella back? Don't think so,” Tony stated with conviction, pulling out his slim phone and beginning to furiously text out a message. “What’re you doing here, Rhodey? Good to see you moving around.”

“I came to help,” he explained, looking slightly miffed at Tony's mention of him walking. 

“Problem has been solved. You're a little late. And no, it wasn’t cheaper. Especially because I’m going to sell the shares for more than what I paid for them in a few days.”

“How did you plan on getting Bellona out of Iraq?” Rhodey demanded, sinking into the nearest lab chair.

“I’m getting there,” Tony said nonchalantly, not looking up from his phone.

“Listen, Tony,” Rhodes began slowly. “The joint task force of Inherent Resolve is planning a strike in the area. There's a temporary U.S. base not far from where she’s located. I can pull some strings, get Bellona into U.S. hands-”

“No, Rhodey, you don't get it,” Tony tossed his phone onto the table in exasperation. It was already taking everything he had to stick to the promise he signed in June. “She's not safe in anyone’s hands. That's why this has to be a private venture. The government touches her — and she's locked up in maximum security where even she can’t break out — and the key is tossed into the Mariana Trench because the entire world is  _ terrified  _ of this abused, manipulated, and emotionally volatile eighteen-turning-forty-three year old. I can't let that happen to her anymore.” 

“You're still stuck with the problem of Bellona being in Iraq, which is probably one of the worst countries for an enhanced weapon to be lost in,” Rhodes was growing increasingly frustrated with his friend; the tech genius didn’t seem to have a solid plan for this undertaking. “This is the equivalent of letting terrorists get their hands on a Soviet nuke, Tony.” 

“She's not a weapon!” Tony suddenly yelled at his friend, causing Rhodes to quiet in shock at the sudden emotional explosion. “And she's not with Barnes. He's not controlling her.” 

“Okay, so you're going to leave a highly attractive woman with superhuman abilities she can't even use in a country swarming with terrorists who treat women like property,” Rhodes rephrased his statement. “Still not a good idea.” 

“If you came here to help, you’re doing a fantastic job,” Tony’s voice brimmed with sarcasm. He took to ignoring both their presences and instead turned to study yet another map. The contingencies of what he had in mind had to work. They just had too. 

“That's Italy, not Iraq,” Pepper pointed out, realizing the map the billionaire was looking at was of the Mediterranean peninsula. “Are you feeling okay, Tony?” 

“I’m feeling fantastic,” he replied dryly, tapping away furiously at his phone for a minute. “Fine enough to go on a cruise of the Mediterranean. Either of you want in? Pack your swimsuits. Chopper leaves in five.” 


	16. August 4, 2016

Dawn was yawning over the scraggly landscape just outside Baghdad. Bellona Drager had caught herself dozing off multiple times in the silence that had consumed the terrorists’ hideout throughout the night. Her guards had done the same, but were quicker to catch themselves than she was. Now, she blinked her heavy eyelids over her bleary eyes, flicking them around to peek at her surroundings. Nothing had changed. The guards had been switched; there were four of them now, all tall, cautious, and impersonal. They watched her every move with beady, alert eyes, giving her the familiar feeling of being controlled. 

It felt like hours before aggressive voices were heard somewhere outside. Bellona perked up at this, struggling against her bonds to rise into a more comfortable, vigilant position. It elicited several threats from her captors, which she ignored, believing them all bark no bite. 

“ _ -the meaning of this?” _

_ “We’ve got direct orders from our superiors-” _

_ “This land is not for greedy western pigs to exploit!” _

_ “Oh, do you own it?” _

_ “Do you!?” _

_ “We’ve just said-” _

The conversation was terminated by a quick burst of gunfire, several panicked shouts, then a return of bullets. From the sound of it, it had escalated quickly into an intense skirmish between the group that was holding her, and whoever the newcomers were. Those around her exchanged glances between themselves, engaged in a quick muttering before two of them ducked outside to see what the commotion was about. 

Bellona wriggled under the remaining guards’ gazes; her senses were tingling, making her fidget and squirm with the prickling feeling that something was about to happen. They did not like this, that much was evident. It became very obvious when one of them pulled the trigger on his AK-47 and sent a short barrage of bullets into the clay wall directly above her injured shoulder. She gasped in astonishment at this, her muscles freezing as she made eye contact with him. It was unnerving to find his dark eyes brimming with raw terror while he gazed down at her, as though he was but a puny man facing off against a Goliath, not an armed insurgent with a war-worn girl at his feet. 

The skirmish still raged outside; she wasn’t sure if she should be delighted or nervous about the fact that her captors were losing. She was clueless about the identities of the newcomers, but they were significantly better armed than the terrorists around her, and therefore had to be better funded and better organized. 

There was a dying shout from outside before silence descended around the small camp in the Iraqi desert. The two remaining guards around her grew unsettled at this, sharing concerned glances before one cautiously turned to slip outside and determine on which side the battle had favored. 

Bellona almost let out a scream as this guard fell flat to the ground, taken out by a quiet bullet. He landed in a heap of unwashed clothes and weighty weaponry. His companion jumped to attention at this, letting out an astonished shout, he took a step forward, only for the entrance of the camp to burst open and several of the newcomers to bust in. The last terrorist took a bullet to his head before collapsing beside his partner as an onslaught of bullets practically wiped the cramped quarters clean. Bellona managed to avoid most of the deadly rain by dropping onto her side the best she could for still being tied up. 

“Enough!” she ended up screeching when she felt the harsh bite of metal in the shoulder that had taken repeated abuse the past few days. To her utter surprise, the attack ceased and silence reigned for a few moments. 

Licking away the blood that had painted her cracked lips, she struggled to sit up, fighting against the heavy metal that bound her wrists together behind her. 

“Who the hell are you guys?’ she demanded of the strangers. The men who entered were unfamiliar to her, they merely looked like a group of locals, wielding rifles and dressed in ragged clothing. 

“Who are you?” it seemed that one of them spoke English; he was immediately pushed to the front of the group to stand before her and stare down at her in bewilderment. 

“I asked you that,” she snapped, wishing desperately that she could stand up. It was extremely uncomfortable to have to crouch on the floor in front of a potential threat. 

The man who spoke English hesitated, as if running through a translation of her words in his head and reassuring himself he had understood her correctly. “We are hired to start dig in this area. We have orders. Who are you?”

“Wish I knew,” she muttered to herself, hoping that her brain could transform the situation of them arriving into something beneficial to herself. She wondered if this was something Tony had organized. He had to have seen the video by now. 

“Again?” the man asked, not having heard her murmurings.

“Help me,” Bellona pleaded this time, wiggling against her bonds. The group exchanged a few glances before a collective shrug seemed to pass through them. The man who spoke English and another handed their weapons off and stepped forward. One fished a pair of handheld pliers from his pocket and, with some effort, managed to snap off the chains which bound her ankles. She sighed with relief, allowing the muscles in her calves to relax at last; then managed to roll herself forward onto her knees, albeit, swaying as her head began to pound from the movement. She flinched as the one who spoke English laid a hand on her bare, grimy shoulder (the uninjured one, thank God), in an attempt to steady her. 

“You ok?” he asked in his rudimentary English, but his benevolence was clear to her. 

“No,” she replied truthfully, tilting her head so she could stare up into his inquisitive black eyes. They were surrounded by lines of laughter and labor, deeply set in a face tanned from a life of manual, outdoor toil. He was a skilled, honest man trying to make an honest living in one of the worst parts of the world; he loved his family and wanted them to have a better life, especially his young daughter, his and his wife’s (whom he loved immensely) first child. 

Bellona Drager blinked in shock; she wasn’t sure how exactly she had extrapolated that much information from the man simply by glancing into his eyes. By the time she understood the data, the man’s companion had announced that the metal binding her wrists together was some sort of high tech gadget running off a battery, and was unlikely to be broken without the controller. 

“Dammit,” she seethed, anger towards HYDRA quickly rekindling. This situation was growing increasingly annoying to disentangle herself from. “What are you here to do?” she asked the man, who she had decided she could trust to tell the truth. He seemed to be well respected within the group. The other men who had come with him had spread out, scouring the camp for anything interesting or of value. The only things they had found were the mobile phones on each of the slain terrorists. Excited by this discovery, upon determining that the camp was empty, they immediately began toying with the phones, speaking in rapid Arabic to each other. 

“Clear the area for a dig,” the man explained, blinking down at her as if still trying to understand why a pretty girl in a bloodstained dress was being held hostage by a group of terrorists in the middle of the desert. 

“A dig?” Bellona pushed, demanding more information. By now, two of the other men had taken one of the recovered phones and were standing behind her, believing the smartphone possessed a button which would unlock the metal device restraining her hands. 

“Oil,” was all the man had to say for her to grunt, knowing full well the camp was situated on top of a bubbling reserve of black gold. 

It was when a sharp silence hit the small space, which was immediately disrupted by the tinny voice of a recorded video. A video which she had been the protagonist in a few hours ago. 

“No!” she snapped, attempting to lurch to her feet but stumbling and nearly falling flat on her face. Her heartbeat picked up, suddenly roaring like a racecar’s engine as the men watched and listened to the ransom video recorded on the iPhone. The man who spoke English and was just there to make an honest wage placed a hand on her shoulder to help her balance as she tried, in vain, to climb to her feet. The sedatives she had been inundated with repeatedly were still sluggishly circulating through her bloodstream. Raw, petrified adrenaline kept her from dropping into an exhausted, starved coma. It occurred to her that she had no idea how long she had been in the grasps of HYDRA and terrorists. The hotel in Cairo seemed like decades ago. 

It didn’t take long for them to figure out their next course of action. A moment later and she was staring down the barrels of multiple guns, again. 

“ _ What is it?”  _ the man who also spoke English asked in bewilderment, not having paid much attention to the video on the phone.

“ _ She’s worth more money than this job or any other,”  _ one of the group who had raised a gun against Bellona, who just wanted to go home, (though she wasn’t sure where home was anymore) spoke up, greed evident in his voice. 

“ _ Who is she?” _

_ “Bellona Drager. Tony Stark will pay millions for her. So would hundreds of others.” _

_ “These scum were holding her for ransom. Not a bad idea.” _

_ “Let’s get of this hellhole. Bring her.” _

By this point, Bellona Drager had groaned and fallen back onto the dusty ground. She sat and crossed her legs, hunched over from fatigue, her arms still wrested behind her back, courtesy of HYDRA, and let the men argue around her. It was infuriating: to have no control of oneself and the course of the events around her. Though she knew she should have, and would have, had of course, Bucky been there to snap the metal off her wrists and tell her to ignite the oil well beneath them-

She practically froze as this popped into her head, the result of a subconscious thought ushered to her conscious. That was exactly what Bucky would tell her to do to escape this situation: ignite the oil well beneath them. Do it herself, not wait for something Tony might be able to pull off from miles away, if he could do something with the match reference. Sure, the initial explosion would certainly kill all of them. But that’s what they were here for, wasn’t it? Oil. 

But could she do it? What if she was too tired? Could she even focus enough-

Bellona shook these negative thoughts from her mind by physically whipping her head back and forth. No one around her noticed, for the men had descended into an argument about whether they should remain at the terrorist camp, or leave and bring her with them. She would do it herself. She decided to ignore the fact that her hands were bound by some metal of HYDRA’s heinous design, closing her eyes and allowing herself to retreat into the inner workings of her mind and body. Her heartbeat had slowed, now maintaining a steady, powerful thump that embodied life itself. Her breathing settled on a rhythmic, relaxed pace, causing her shoulders to rise and fall with each inhalation and exhalation. The growling of her stomach died down to a slight ache, and the multitude of pains that had plagued her since being manhandled, sedated, and shot faded to a scattering of minimal throbs as she became starkly aware of the lively heat that burned with a pleasant warmth in the hollow of her neck. It grew until it overtook all her other senses, until she was unaware of even the voices around her; all she could comprehend was its fire and what it wanted to reach — what she wanted to reach. The mass of writhing oil which had risen within the earth just beneath her. The fact that oil within the earth was the result of the death of former living things was the only thing that she could process. 

It happened almost instantaneously. The earth began trembling and shuddering under the feet of the heckling group of men, shattering their conversation with a deep-seated fear reminiscent of primordial times, where it was the omnipotent forces of the earth which ruled the planet, not the race of men. Bellona began vibrating like a revving engine, trembling as it felt like a raw, untameable power utilized her muscle fibers and bone cells as a conduit for itself. She did not dare open her eyes, becoming subconsciously aware of what seemed like distant screams and yells, and the stench of burning flesh and superheated sand. 

It had to have been ages, but she knew it had only been a few, brief minutes before she cracked an eye open, feeling the quakes which had overcome her begin to subside. Everything was on fire. It was a billowing, high temperature, angrily orange fire with plumes of pitch black smoke twisting and squirming their way high into the Iraqi sky. Where it blocked out the sun and cast ominous shadows over the area that had once held a terrorist camp. Now, it was totally incinerated; she was somehow still sitting where she had been, kneeling on sand, surrounded by a blazing fire. She did not stop to consider the fact that she was completely unscathed; the logical reasoning that she not would be did not even occur to her. It just seemed obvious that she would. 

There were no signs of life in the now hellish landscape. The horizon was obscured by demons of brilliant orange and snakes of distorted black. Bellona continued to hand over control of her faculties to whatever unconscious drive had overtaken her. Somehow, the HYDRA metal had vanished, and as she walked (a little too slowly for the reptilian fight or flight response that was activated in the face of the catastrophe raging around her), she massaged the red, chafed skin of her wrists. 

She had been walking forever. Or so she thought, until the howling inferno that had been ushered to the surface of the earth was but a dim speck in the distance and her consciousness seemed to reclaim control. It was nightfall when she collapsed onto the now cool sand of the Iraqi desert, clutching at the fine grains with shaky fingers to help anchor herself in time. Groaning, ignoring the aches and pains that now crashed down upon her, she fell over onto her back and stared up at the first glimmerings of stars that were emerging in a sky that was unmolested by the lights of civilization. As constellations began tracing themselves across the heavens, the reality of what had just occurred — what she had just done — fully impacted her. She shouldn’t have been able to do it — ignite the mass of oil welling beneath the surface, usher it into the daylight, and then wreak havoc across a swath of the Iraqi desert. Men had been killed, which probably included the honest man who loved his family and was just trying to make his wages. While this upset her, she was accustomed to death. What she was not well acquainted with was the actions which she had taken. The more this boiled within her brain, the more it seemed as though it had not been her actions, but rather, she had been the proxy for a powerful force which carried out a course of strategy which benefited her. It was almost unbelievable had it not just happened. 

The sun was beginning to peak over the dunes that lay in the east when Bellona realized she was still in the middle of nowhere, Iraq. 


	17. August 4, 2016

“Shit!” the word choked its way through her scorched, bloodied lips. Sure, setting fire to an oil deposit was fun and all — it would probably burn for decades — but it didn’t solve the problem of her being in the Iraqi desert, miles away from anyone who had her best interests in mind, famished, dehydrated, and still suffering the effects of heavy tranquilizers.

“In a bit of a situation?” the unexpected voice had her rolling up onto her feet and then sinking into a defensive crouch in a flash, static sparking around her head as she prepared to deal with whoever had shown up now. 

“Vision?” she heaved the word at the appearance of the sentient robot that Tony had made a few years ago, and whom she had fought at the airport in Leipzig. That all seemed like a lifetime ago. 

“Bellona,” his cape was blowing slightly in the weak early morning breeze that still managed to stir up loose sand from the desert around them. 

“How. . . ?” Bellona coughed, demanding an explanation. Vision couldn’t have just happened to fly over this particular part of the world. She shakily left her cautious crouch only to find herself dropping back down to the cool ground beneath her, heartbeat slowing from the sudden fright. 

“There was a brief article in the world news of an undiscovered oil deposit spontaneously bursting into flames in Iraq,” he elaborated, giving her a look that explicitly stated he knew full well what had actually happened. “That, and I picked up on a sudden reading of an immense amount of energy being released from here. . . .”

“Okay, but, the Accords. . . .” 

“Became a mess. Wanda and I are in hiding,” he explained, dropping down to a knee, reaching a hand out, and tilting her chin up so he could study the sedative still dripping through her bloodstream, as evident from the glaze of her eyes. “We travel where we please. We keep in touch with the others at times, and avoid any potential conflicts. It’s best this way.”

“Until something happens. . . .” she murmured under her breath, batting his hand away from her and shaking her head vigorously. This only increased her now throbbing headache. 

“I can get you somewhere more. . . ideal,” Vision informed her, wasting no time in picking her up and launching into the air. Bellona made no protests, other than wrapping her arms tightly around him, becoming incredibly aware of the pulsing power that seemed to lie within him. It was similar to the energy that she had felt just a few hours ago when reaching out to the oil deposit. 

She had no idea how long they flew for; she remained awake the whole time because she could  _ feel  _ the infinity stone that powered the Vision. It pulsed like a heartbeat, like it was alive. It was this that fully convinced her of the infinity stone that resided in herself, like a commensalistic relationship — or perhaps it was symbiotic; she possessed supernatural powers and the stone. . . .

This thought sent her sluggish mind racing as fast as it could while Vision flew over the desert — what benefit did the infinity stone receive from lying within her? Had HYDRA influenced it at all? Perhaps T’Challa had been right in saying that HYDRA had collared it, and she truly did not have a full idea of what power she could wield? The thought was terrifying, but somehow also dangerously alluring. 

“I leave you here,” Vision interrupted her cognitive crisis as he began to descend. The scent of the Mediterranean was thick within the air; the presence of the body of water was a heavenly fragrance. He cruised down to a hover before gently dropping her at the end of an old wooden pier. It was somewhere on the coast of Cyprus, encompassed by the sea. There, on the salt-stained wooden boards, she sank into a cross-legged position and glanced up to look at him before he departed. 

“Why?”

He smiled softly as though anticipating the question. “Simply because we all have our differences does not mean we are no longer a family.” With that and nothing more than an understanding look into her eyes, he took off into the night, leaving Bellona feeling astonished but with a glimmer of hope warming the back of her mind. 

Wondering exactly how dropping her on an island in the Mediterranean was going to help, and if he realized that he had crossed international borders to do so, Bellona gazed out at the turquoise waves that lapped loudly against the pier. The morning sun bathed the sea with a mellow light that reflected off the rolling waves, showcasing their natural merriment. The salty wood was rough under her bare skin; it was now that she realized the state of her once white dress — it was practically destroyed, a bloody, burnt scrape of a garment with tears and rips that exposed more than it covered. 

It was just another problem she had to solve. The first was how she was going to get out of Cyprus. She supposed she could hijack a boat, or stowaway on a ship that was hopefully going somewhere useful. She was closer to Wakanda than to the United States, but she could not head back now, it would be embarrassing. It was shameful enough already; to leave a safe location only to be kidnapped and dragged all about the Middle East, then sold and ransomed like a valuable possession. 

Tony must have gotten the video. . . was he on his way? Was that dig team his? Could he have sent something from one of his satellites to the area? Or was he grappling with bureaucracy, needing his permission slip signed to fly across the world and deal with a group of bad guys? As she thought this, Bellona was sickened by how dependent on others she was. It couldn’t be helped, she supposed. HYDRA had stripped her of all self-volition and self control. Besides, she had just been drugged and abused by different terrorists groups — what was she supposed to do? 

Something, obviously. She was gifted with supernatural powers: she, amongst the billions on the planet. The least she could do was think of something to do that could help herself. 

“Hey, kid.” She really needed to work on the panic reaction whenever someone appeared without notice and spoke with warning. She flew up to her feet and almost stumbled off the pier and into the water below.

“Woah,” a hand grabbed her shoulders and steadied her — but she only winced and attempted to draw away further, the gunshot wound she had almost forgotten about exacerbated by the contact.

“Tony,” Bellona finally recognized the new arrival. Tony Stark had lowered the face mask from the Iron Man suit and was staring at her with worry evident in his gaze. “Where-”

“There,” he pointed out onto the water behind her where a gleaming yacht was now sitting, floating atop the waves, looking like a warm oasis of safety.

“How-”

“I was in the area. FRIDAY picked up on a funny signal here,” he explained quickly before lowering his mask again. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” She allowed him to scoop her up and fly off towards the yacht, which hadn’t even dropped anchor. It had all happened so fast, she was overwhelmed. She wasn’t sure it  _ was  _ happening. Consequentially, she passed out from exhaustion by the time Tony landed on the yacht, where an anxious Pepper Potts was pacing. Her long red hair was drawn up into a strict bun that meant she meant business, creases of concern were smoothed out when Tony landed. 

“You got her!” Pepper exclaimed upon sighting them, “oh God, look at her! She looks terrible, bring her downstairs right now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tony complied, allowing his suit to shrink off of him as he stepped inside the yacht and headed toward the closest bedroom, the CEO of his family company on his heels. “FRIDAY run her vitals, now.”

“Her breathing and heart rate are lower than normal for a supersoldier, boss,” the AI responded.

“Sedatives?”

“Will need blood tests to determine what type-”

“Well, it’s obvious she’s been drugged,” Pepper pointed out as Tony kicked open the door and set Bellona on the queen sized bed that each luxurious bedrooms in the yacht was equipped with.

“No shit,” Bellona herself muttered, having woken up due to their rather loud conversing. “I wanna shower.”

“What?” Tony said, stunned she had even returned to consciousness after FRIDAY’s readings. 

“You got running water on this boat? Let me shower,” she practically begged, rolling up and dropping to the floor beside the bed. She stumbled in the direction Tony had weakly pointed in, somehow opening the door and stepping inside the immaculately white marble bathroom. 

“I’ll help her out,” Pepper took charge, resting a hand on Tony’s shoulder. He was clearly growing stressed by the situation. 

“Make sure she doesn’t drown,” he said, only half joking, “also, hold on a minute.” He held his hand up and tapped a button on the watch around his wrist. Within a minute, a maroon colored box had zoomed its way into his palm. He opened it and pulled out a small, thin, metal tube-like gadget. “Get some of her blood so we can test it for whatever shit they put in it. This only needs a millisecond of direct skin contact. She hopefully won’t even notice.”

  
  
  
  


Tony Stark anxiously paced on the back deck of the yacht that was cruising towards Italy, their destination the little used villa that James Drager once owned. It had been over an hour before Pepper returned from belowdecks.

“Got it,” she announced, handing him the miniscule vial. “You’re right, she didn’t notice.”

“How is she now?” he asked, taking the vial and slipping it into his pocket to be analyzed as soon as this conversation was finished. 

“Sleeping. Whatever they drugged her with was really strong. And there was a bullet in her shoulder.”

Tony grew startled at this information, his dark eyes widening. “There was a what?”

“It just sort of popped out,” Pepper explained with a slight shrug, adopting the nonchalant manner Bellona herself had used when this had occurred. 

“It just. . . popped out?”

“Yeah, I could hardly believe it either. It was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. I asked her if she knew she was wounded and she said she did, then she put her hand over her shoulder,” Pepper imitated the movement that had stunned her earlier, “and there was this white light, this really strong, warm light, and it just fell out. Just like that.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Tony smiled grimly, “she give you the bullet?”

“No, she. . . burned it to just smoke.”

“She. . . okay.”

“I know that should have surprised me, but. . . it didn’t.”

Tony reached into his pocket and retrieved the cool metal vial. He stared at it, lying innocently in his hand, recalling the tests that had been conducted years ago and how they had come up with nothing. He wondered if he could do better now. He had to be able to. His pulse quickened as ideas raced through his head, the thought that he was capable of doing something to help Bellona seized hold of him and immediately intoxicated him. “Well. . . holy shit.”


	18. August 4, 2016

Bellona Drager strolled her way up from below decks of the yacht and onto the back deck where Tony Stark and Pepper Potts were lounging as the boat cruised to a halt just off the Italian coast. She was dressed in an expensive silk bathrobe, the color of the cheerful Mediterranean waves. Equally luxurious slippers were on her feet and a tall glass of champagne was in one hand. Her shortened hair rested against the tops of her shoulders with an envious liberty and a pair of aviator sunglasses, likely procured from Tony’s own collection shielded her bright blue eyes from the late afternoon sun. 

“I’m awake,” she announced with a buoyant grin as she slid onto the padded outdoor couch across from the pair. “And feeling better than ever.”

“Is that because the sedative is out of your system or because you chopped off three feet of your hair?” Tony shot back instantly, and it was as if the past decades had not even occurred between the childhood friends. 

“Probably both,” she snorted, swinging herself around to rest her feet across the couch. “So um, where are we?”

“Do you remember your dad’s villa?”

“Uh, no. . . .”

“That’s it,” Tony pointed across the stern of the yacht, towards the cliffs of the peninsula. The villa he was referring to matched the boat they were on in terms of luxury. Made of white marble and beige stucco, it had rolling arches and wide windows that looked out onto the lapping Mediterranean. A swimming pool embedded into the foundation of both the house and cliff was clearly visible, as was a rolling balcony that encompassed almost the entirety of the coastside. She spotted a few statues of Roman gods scattered at aesthetic locations, and a three tiered water fountain that looked as if it hadn’t had water flow through it in quite some time.

“Wow. . . when’s the last time this place has been used?”

“I’ve been here a few times, last time was, say, five years ago now.”

“It would be a cute honeymoon destination,” Pepper observed, holding a hand up to guard her eyes from the sun. She then shot a glance at Tony, which went unnoticed by him. 

“Yeah,” Tony said offhandedly, “it’s a safehouse right now, though. Bella. . . alright, first off, uh, well, uh, I guess I’m, well, no, I am sorry I blasted you. . . back in June.”

“Oh,” Bellona turned from staring at the villa, trying to conjure memories of it to no avail. With Tony bringing up the events of the past few months, her bubble of contentedness was burst and she was forced back into reality. “It’s alright. It wasn’t intentional. . . right. . . .”

“Right, obviously, of course it wasn’t. Uh, I’m also, well, why were you in Cairo?” Tony fumbled his words, clearly trying to get information but also well aware of everything that had come in between them. 

Bellona shrugged, “on the run.”

“From?”

“Everyone?” her laugh was like a harsh whip. She was in no mood to mince words. “HYDRA found me and sold me to a bunch of terrorists, who tried to ransom me to a dozen different people and organizations, but then some group of workmen came along trying to dig for oil, killed the terrorists, found the videos, and went to steal their idea. It’s been a wild few days.”

“So they did get there. . . .” Tony muttered to himself, appearing to be musing off about something in the distance.   
“What?” Bellona narrowed her eyes, “what do you mean?”

“He practically bought Exxon Mobil, then pulled some strings and had a team sent to dig in that site,” Pepper jumped in. “Absurd, really.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard,” Bellona snapped her head to Tony. “You could have flown in and out in a few hours. No one would have known.”

“I signed the Accords, Bella,” Tony sighed, “I don’t have the authority to operate in Iraq.”

“Do you understand now, why I disliked the Accords,” she practically seethed, the glass of champagne had been placed down and she swung herself forward so she was leaning across the table between them. “That and the fact that they probably want to incarcerate me in that stupid floating prison.”

“So you were there,” Tony snapped his head to stare at his reflection in her sunglasses.

“What?” she paused, drawing back a little, not expecting that expedition to be brought up. She preferred not to think about it. 

“Someone broke them all out of that exact prison. It wasn’t just Rogers, was it? He had help. I’m pretty sure it was the help that only you can supply.”

“Are you gonna turn me in?” Bellona demanded, crossing her arms over her chest and straightening her posture. “For doing the right thing?”

“People died,” he casually remarked. Neither of the two had noticed that Pepper had disappeared a few comments ago. The tension between the two was palpable. 

“It was an accident, okay,” Bellona ground her teeth, lips curled into a savage frown. “I couldn’t control it. Barnes wasn’t exactly around.”

“Barnes?” he was quick to pick up on her usage of the Winter Soldier’s surname.

“Bucky,” she spat his name through her teeth, viciously reminded of how furious she was at him for going back under and not even informing her. “He’s. . . obviously not with me right now.”

“So where were you?” he pushed for information, refusing to back down. 

“Cairo,” she snapped, “you knew that.”

“I saw HYDRA take you.”

“And you didn’t do anything?”

“I tried, okay! I’m here now, aren’t I? Or would you rather be left in the desert, blowing up oil deposits in the middle of terrorist headquarters?”

“How do you know about that?”

At this, Tony leaned forward and tapped the glass table before them. It glowed to life at his touch; a few quick flicks and they were looking at a small article in a Saudi Arabian newspaper, attempting to describe the indescribable blast. “FRIDAY picked up on this after I had a team sent there. Knew something had to do it. Was it a big enough match for you?”

“The team didn’t really help,” Bellona shrugged, falling back against the couch and looking slightly more relaxed now. “As I said, they killed the terrorists but as soon as they found out who I was they wanted to do the same thing. Sell me like a weapon.”

“So, you ignited the oil?” Tony confirmed, copying her motions; leaning back on the couch opposite her and studying her with a curious eye. She was still anxious, he observed; still on edge from all that had happened in such a short time. He didn’t, in fact, couldn’t blame her. 

“Yes,” she replied, staring down at her hands folded in her lap. “I don’t really know how. But it happened.”

A silence grew on the deck of the yacht, interrupted only by the warm Mediterranean breeze that wafted the salty smell of the sea over them. Then Tony broke it by pronouncing the question he was dying to know.

“What was it like?”

Bellona flinched slightly, as though she had not expected him to speak. She removed her sunglasses and snapped her eyes to Tony’s. They glowed a brilliant blue, almost making him regret opening his mouth. “What? What was what like?”

Tony hesitated, avoiding her eyes for a moment before meeting them and spitting it out. “Playing catch me if you can with Barnes for years. And then knowing. . . . What he did to our parents, your parents-”

“Oh,” Bellona reverted her gaze to look back down at her hands, now clenched together in her lap. She ensured that she had well chewed her lip before swallowing and beginning. “I actually didn’t find out until a year in that right before he kidnapped me he killed mom and dad. We went back to the old house you know. Drank the alcohol you sent there. You remember Sofia Ottani?”

Tony blinked at this, not expecting her to be so calm about it all. “Uh. . . your parents housekeeper, right? Babysat us a lot, taught us Italian, made the sign of the cross all the time behind your back?”

“Yeah, her,” Bellona froze for a moment, then put her sunglasses back on and decisively stated, “I killed her.”

“Well, shit,” Tony breathed, he had entirely forgotten about the old woman, having believed she was irrelevant, a relic of a past that was no more. “I was surprised when I went back two years ago and she was still there polishing the tables.”

“She sold us out to HYDRA.”

“ _ What? _ ”

“Yeah. For revenge, because apparently I accidentally killed her son when my dog was a puppy and ran into the street. There was a truck coming up the street and. . . .”

“And James Drager pushed the limits of his law expertise to ensure the witnesses’ testimony convinced the jury that the explosion was not related to you or the Drager family. I remember that trial. That was like what, back in ‘83?” Tony was flabbergasted, but he could see all the pieces falling into place now, no matter how ridiculous it sounded; a housekeeper selling them out to HYDRA. . . . 

“Yeah. But it didn’t matter. HYDRA knew about me. They tracked me for years before kidnapping me.”

“Bella,” Tony’s tone had dropped to intense inquisition. “All the stuff you can do. . . .”

“There’s an explanation,” Bellona cut him off, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Found it in mom’s old files. I actually want to go back again and look through more of them. There’s a lot of sensitive S.H.I.E.L.D. data there, I’m surprised no one’s busted up the place looking for it. But, you know how Vision has an infinity stone in his forehead?”

“Yeah— wait, are you saying—”

“Yes,” Bellona nodded and reached up to trace the outline of the pale oval on her throat, that had once been just a birthmark. “Right here.”

 


End file.
